Kristina: A Fantasy
by stefanie bean
Summary: This unusual, alternative-universe interpretation of the Phantom of the Opera story centers around the young Swedish singer Kristina, as she encounters independence, mystery, and love in Paris's Eclectic Theater at the end of the nineteenth century. WIP
1. War in Heaven

Chapter One: War in Heaven

The moon glistened over the roof tiles of the stonecutter's spacious house, and a gnome skittered out of the way as the fairy man drifted down into the little front-yard garden lush with midsummer flowers.

Inside, someone backlit by a lamp moved slowly to and fro. The fairy man decided to wait for a few moments and watch. It was she. Her husband had left an hour ago, but up till then, the fairy man had been taking his time, amusing himself from his perch in the oak tree by chucking little pebble-spells down at the garden gnomes. Even now he slowed his approach towards the polished oak front door, and within him anticipation built. _Let her wait_, he thought. She would appreciate him all the more when he finally did appear.

Now, in front of her door, he didn't knock. Instead, he sent his soft senses adrift through the house and felt her anxious thoughts. She was just about to put out the lamp and retire to bed in defeat. She thought he'd forgotten her. _I'll put an end to her desperation_, he resolved.

It had been three months since the fairy man had first come upon the stonecutter and his wife in their little clearing outside the village too small to be called one, just southwest of Rennes. Close to the edge of their orchard began a vast forest with many trees never cut, under whose bracken lived small and secret things not often seen by human eyes.

The stonecutter's wife was fresh and young, a strawberry blonde with peachy skin and just a hint of plumpness around her breasts and middle. The fairy man knew all of her sad story; hadn't she told him often enough? The stonemason was old, sour, and gone for weeks at a time on commissions in Rennes and even Paris. As much as his pretty wife would have liked it, for the stonecutter and his bride there would be no fine house in the city. The husband preferred this remote country outpost because company other than his own tired him. He had liked the soft sounds of the woods when he had chosen this obscure clearing to build a house for his wife. Neither hunters nor woodsmen came to this spot, as the forest was rumored to be haunted.

The fairy man also knew, because she had told him numerous times bordering upon the tedious, that her husband was one of the few who would take a fatherless girl without a dowry or anything to recommend her. _Except for her silky skin_, her lover thought, but he knew full well with the human folk how long that lasted. Not long at all, but enjoy it while you may.

So the fay man shifted his appearance until he almost resembled a young student with curly red hair and a long, pointed nose. It was too bad about the hair; it made him conspicuous among the man folk, but it couldn't be helped. His overly long and delicate hands hesitated for a moment on the door-latch. Perhaps this should be the last time he visited the mason's wife. She was developing a tendency to weep, was getting a bit fat, and there were far more fishes in the sea than of which even he might dream.

He rattled the door latch softly. The servants, he knew, slept in the back of the house, and the mistress was liberal with wine on the nights she expected him. When she opened the door and saw him, she pulled him in, away from any spying passers-by. She yanked the curtain over the window, lowered the lamp, then flung herself at his flat chest, and began kissing it with greedy hunger.

"When is the old cuckold returning?" he asked, as eager hands pulled on his coat. "Careful, there, do you want to sew buttons?" he complained. Not that any of his buttons needed sewing, ever, as they would regrow when needed.

"Tomorrow morning," she replied, and what she did with those little pink hands was nice, very nice indeed, and he almost began to regret the thought of leaving her.

They went into the master bedroom. On a curved sleigh bed, he slid into her smooth wet compliance. Then he stopped with a shock, all his senses trembling, and lost his composure almost to the point of abandoning his human shape.

"What's wrong?" she murmured in complaint.

There was someone else there in the room with them, a third. He could sense it with the tendrils of awareness which rose from him like invisible smoke. Not the husband, and not, thankfully, his fairy wife or one of her spies. It was a child. He sent an inquisitive offshoot of exploration out and up into his mistress. As far as he could tell, the child was not one of his. A human child it was, newly planted there by the stonecutter or some other man. As it was long before the time of quickening, she didn't even know it was there, asleep underneath her heart. Nonetheless, a human child it was, one which had been bathed in a fay's presence these past months.

He thought of removing himself from her eager body, but thought, _Why should I? It's only a human superstition that my presence in there would hurt the watery little thing._ Perhaps he might even come back later after it was born, and take it as a present to his wife. On a whole shelf in their home under the mountain sat row after row of dull-eyed changelings, inert and stupid. It had been a long time since he'd had the chance to swap one of their leathery carcasses for a warm, wiggling human baby, and his palms itched with anticipation at the thought. Perhaps his wife would accept it as an offering of forgiveness.

Therefore, when he noticed the mason's wife looking up at him with alarmed eyes, he smiled and reassured her, "It was only a noise," which made her double her efforts to regain his interest, and then the fairy man thought of nothing at all for quite some time.

In that black space just before dawn, the moon moved low into the bedroom window, and the fairy man realized it was far past the time to disentangle himself from his mistress. She stirred and muttered in her sleep as he gently removed her arm from his chest. He felt apprehensive, as if someone was watching them. In particular he did not like the way the moonbeams danced on the window curtains, and how the curtains' soft muslin fabric moved in the absence of any breeze. When the moonlight clotted into a soft cloud in front of the curtains, he knew there was going to be trouble.

The soft white shape took on a form. From the congealed air in front of the curtains emerged a tall figure with weaving, waving hair and a face waxen, pointed, and pale. "My love," the fairy man began, "Wait. There is a child."

The fairy man's wife looked scornfully at the young woman snoring gently on the bed. "But not yours."

"It could be."

"Don't I know birth? Don't I know death? How many wombs have I wandered up inside, fixing or loosening the fruit as I will? I can see what's in her womb, and it is not yours. Bathed in your essence, of course, because it glows like a little red candle in the dark. But not yours."

He sighed. "I can get it for you when its time comes. Would you like it?"

She looked at him with haunted eyes full of pain. "Why? So after a year or two it can sicken and die? So after seven years either it can go mad, or I return it to a world it never knew, with all its friends and people gone, and then I can watch it go mad anyway? It's not worth it to me anymore."

She swirled around the room and came to rest near the sleeping woman. The stonecutter's wife stirred and murmured. A faint line of saliva left her mouth and rested like a clear jewel on the pillowcase.

"Don't. Don't take this one. Please."

"It's so disgusting when you fall in love with them."

"I'm not in love with this one. Long ago, yes, you used to long for a child, and I used to fall in love with them. This is different. This child is different. When I was inside of her, I could feel it."

Inside the swirl of his wife a red mist began to coalesce.

_This isn't having the effect I intended_, he thought. _Time to change the approach_. "You may have given up on a child, but I haven't. I see these mortals with their own children every night at dusk, when they pull the quilts up to their chins. It matters not to them that in a few short years what they sprout will grow up and become old, or that so many of them will see their own children waste away even before they do. They go on regardless. I want something of that."

"Why don't you join them, then?" she spit out in anger. "There's no doubt some magic that can do it for you. It's not unheard of, you know."

He whirled away, and as the curtains rustled with his motion, the mason's wife opened her eyes. She stared at the fairy woman, rubbing her face and saying nothing. Then she spied the fairy man, and her face clenched into confused concentration. "Dear God," she said in a terrified and dry whisper. "Saints preserve me from the korrigans." She then began to weep.

"Shut up," the fairy woman hissed. "I'll give you something to warble about."

"No!" her husband cried, and to the stone mason's wife, it sounded like the bells that rang on the cart of the gypsy peddler, whose sound shrunk into a distant tinkle as the cart drew farther away.

The fairy woman reached out her silvery, translucent hand and touched the stone mason's wife on the belly. The fairy's silver face pressed close to the woman's, and the fairy woman breathed twinkling clouds into her rival's open, horrified mouth. The woman froze in unmoving terror.

The fairy man shook himself into a swirl of glowing dust, and suddenly he was inside the woman's womb, next to an enormous unformed tadpole all monstrous goggling eyes, a face that was nothing but a few corrugated folds, and more tail than body.

He watched the red blight eat its way into right side of the crumpled flesh that would someday be a face, and crawl slowly over to the left. In a paroxysm of rage he collected all his wit and power, and a fierce gold fire appeared at the edge of the blight, stopping its progress down the cheek.

It was clear what his wife had planned to do. The curse was intended to spread all through the youngling's body, to turn it into a stunted dwarf with a misshapen, grotesque head and face. She wasn't going to kill it at all. In a way, this would be worse.

The tadpole twitched and shook in its watery sac.

The smaller the fairy man became, the more power rushed to his disposal. He could not heal what had already been placed on that little unformed face, but he stopped its progression. Then he made himself smaller still, and the woman's womb filled with a great golden-red light. It bathed the wiggling form from head to tail, and the child became calm.

_I wish I knew, as she can, whether it will be a boy or girl. It's still too unformed to tell by looking at it._ He shrank himself smaller than one of the embryo's soft and unformed toes, and summoned every power at his disposal. He caressed the twitching form with his vibrations, and as the power left him, he felt himself grow larger and more formed until at last he returned to the stone mason's bedroom. Tall and massive he appeared, and now looked like the fairy king he was. His red flaming hair streamed from his head, and silver and black swirls oscillated within his body. The fairy queen drifted slowly away from the bed.

The terrified woman clutched her belly, sobbing, "There can't be a baby! There can't!" Then she turned to look at her lover and sputtered in horror. "What are you? Are you going to kill me? Blessed Virgin, help me!"

"You should know," the fairy woman said to her, full of spite, "that there's no help for you from your god now. You've put yourself beyond his pale. Now you are ours," and she rushed forth in a white whirl toward the sobbing woman who rocked back and forth on the bed.

The fairy king blocked her way. His red fire made the whole room glow, and the mason's wife stopped crying. "There's a baby? Is it … human?"

"Oh, yes," the fairy woman snapped. "Although I think you'll find it a bit of a surprise."

The white-faced woman just stared.

The fay king swept a wave of his fire around his wife like a cloak. "We're going now," he ordered. "We are done here. I won't return, but you won't, either."

She glared back at him, sending silver daggers of moonlit anger towards the stricken woman and her own glowing husband.

He grasped the fairy queen by her hair, and her head snapped back as he looked her full in the face. "I can defeat you. You know it. I've done it before. You complain about my women. Yet you stalk boys on the night of their first damp dreams, and capture the silvery stains before they hit the sheets. Recall that once I stopped you from coupling with a human fool in the form of an ass. Fear my power, wife. Who rides the wind at night on a clawed horse with fire spurting from his nostrils, ripping the tops off the trees? Who causes the cattle to drop dead at midnight, their entrails hanging out of their split bellies? Don't challenge me on this. We are leaving now."

And with that, the two figures softened and blurred into nothingness, as the moon fled before the advancing dawn.

(_Continued_…)


	2. In the Glow of the Red Candle

Chapter Two – **In the Glow of the Red Candle**

**(A/N:** Many thanks to **Jennie_Jay** for her help in looking over these early chapters.)

The serving maid's face twisted with anxiety as she let the midwife and her assistant into the kitchen of the stone mason's house. The clock had just struck midnight.

"She keeps screaming, Ma'am, but I can't see no reason for it. She don't have that many pains, and when I ask her if they hurt, she says no, and then just screams some more." The other servant girls clustered behind her but said nothing, only stared with wide and frightened eyes.

The midwife shook her gray head and adjusted her maroon kerchief. Her round face made her look younger than her sixty years. She had guided almost half a thousand babies into the world, and one more wasn't going to elude her. All the same, she was getting too old for this. Sixty was a bit advanced to stay up all night waiting for babies to come, and her assistant Magdalena was too inexperienced to do it on her own.

Magdalena, a tall flat girl just out of her teens, followed her into the room. She carried an ancient wooden chair with a hollowed-out seat.

The stone mason's wife didn't notice the women as they entered her bedroom. Her nightdress was stained and askew over her shoulder, while her unbraided hair fell over her face. "It's time, isn't it? It's time," she said through her stuffy, tear-clogged nose.

Magdalena helped the midwife tie her apron around her broad middle, then laced her own. One of the servant girls hadn't had the presence of mind to flee back to the kitchen, and to her the midwife said, "Please fetch Mme. Niemann's hairbrush." When it was in hand, the midwife turned to the laboring woman and said, "My dear, listen. We're going to braid up your hair, give your face a wash, and Magdalena is going to make some tea."

Mme. Niemann jumped at these words. "I don't want this baby. I never did."

"Well, babies come when God wills it, and in God's own time, and this one's coming now. Magdalena, is the water on? Good. Let's braid her hair and then we'll have some tea. By the way, where is her husband? I didn't see M. Niemann after he dropped us off at the door. I thought he went to stable the horses, but he hasn't returned."

The maid said in a shaky voice, "He's gone to Rennes. Something about meeting His Excellency the Bishop's man at the cathedral the next morning. Monsieur said we could take care of things here very well on our own."

The midwife snorted, but said nothing.

Magdalena worked the brush slowly through Mme. Niemann's snarled hair. When a pain struck, Mme. Niemann leaned over and clutched at her damp nightdress. A thin scream escaped her mouth. The midwife trudged over to her, slowed a little by the twinge of an arthritic hip. She bent down in front of the anxious woman and took her face in her hands.

"Listen to me. You're only starting your labor. Don't wear yourself out with all that noise. You are going to have a lot more pains before this is all over with, and then you will hold your new baby in your arms."

The carved clock on the mantelpiece ticked out the next quarter hour, and the woman's pains were so regular, they could have served as chimes. The midwife looked for the birthing rags and the cloths for diapering and swaddling the new baby, but nothing had been prepared.

There was a cradle, at least, with a soft cushion and warm blankets. The midwife stood quietly for a moment, thinking. _That fool of a maid could have come to me sooner, and told me her mistress was touched in the head. There's not much here. I'm ready to rip up these sheets for rags. _ As Magdalena rummaged through the wardrobes and drawers, the midwife began to tear a fine linen sheet into strips.

The distracted woman wouldn't stay in bed. She rocked back and forth on the settee, and then flew to her feet with a loud cry as a small puddle of liquid pooled beneath her on the wooden floor.

Magdalena and the midwife bent down to examine it closely. "It's clear," the midwife determined. "Thanks be to the Blessed Virgin. God willing, it won't be long now. Mademoiselle," she gestured to the maid, "Clean that up. Magdalena, help me get her back into bed."

The pains came faster. The midwife, her stout arms planted on either side of her hips, called for another servant. "Do you know where Félicité DuBois lives? It's the grey stucco cottage, about a quarter-kilometer down the western road from here."

The maid, eyes circled darkly from fatigue and fright, nodded quickly. She was a young girl, fresh from the farm herself, and grateful for any excuse to leave the big stone house. "Do you want me to bring her? I'll go at once."

"You'll stay. It's too dark for a slip of a girl like you. Tell the stableman to fetch a lantern and go. He is to ask her first if she is still able to wet-nurse. A few weeks ago I saw her at the market, with an infant almost ready for weaning. If she has no milk, she's of no use to us and may stay home in her warm bed, but if she can, bring her here at once, and tell her she will be well-paid."

From the bed came a few uncontrolled shrieks. The midwife gave an exasperated huff. She cuffed Mme. Niemann lightly on the face a few times. "Stop that screaming! Do you want to suffocate your child?"

"Yes! I don't care! I won't have this baby, I won't! The child is cursed, you'll see. Let it suffocate, for all I care …"

"Shhh … it's coming along fine. You are young, you are strong, and you have hips like a barn door. Two babies could come through there side by side. Calm yourself and pray. It won't be long now."

Magdalena brought over the birthing stool. "Are we ready for this, then?"

"Not yet. Come on, let's give her some more of that tea," and the laboring woman in between pains sipped some of the warm herb infusion.

Dawn colored the curtains with pale grey when the mason's wife shrieked and then panted in a different, more methodical way. The two women pulled her off the bed, but she fought back. They dragged her over to the birthing chair and hoisted up her gown. Mme. Niemann cried out that she was dying, that the child would kill her. Magdalena poked the midwife's arm and gave her a quizzical look of fright, but the midwife just shrugged and said, "It's her first time. They all think that."

The midwife examined the woman's laboring belly, and saw how the many pains merged into a long continuous one. Mme. Niemann's chemise stuck to her body with sweat, and the hot drops flew off her face as she thrashed her head to and fro. "Work hard and pray, for your baby is almost here," the midwife said, and she nodded her head reassuringly at Magdalena, to tell her that all was well.

More pains, more pushes, more screams, but still no baby appeared. Magdalena looked tired as she held the limp woman up, supporting her under the arms. The midwife frowned. She hated to put her hands where God had never intended hands to go. That was for the meddlesome doctors, with their filthy manipulations and their even worse instruments. But something seemed wrong, and she wanted to explore, to find out what it was.

From the kitchen, Félicité DuBois called out, "Good women, where are you?"

"In here, and we could sorely use your strong arms, whether you can nurse or not."

"It just so happens that I can. Here, let me take her." Félicité was almost as large as the midwife, but younger and more vigorous. Magdalena relinquished her burden and sank down gratefully in front of Mme. Niemann's chanting, sweating form.

The midwife went to wash her hands. The doctors mocked anyone who did that, she knew. She rubbed them with goldenseal powder besides. Then she gently nudged Magdalena aside, and with some grunts and groans lay down between Mme. Niemann's thighs.

"Watch, Magdalena, and pay attention. Mme. Niemann, don't flinch like that, you're a mother, or soon will be. I'm not going to hurt you. You are going to feel my hand. I'm going to see where our little stranger is."

The mason's wife shuddered and started to shriek again. _If we could only muzzle her, or knock her out,_ the midwife thought.

Then her blood froze. Instead of the round firmness of a baby's head, she had touched something bony and irregular. She felt around further, sweeping her hand and trying to piece out what this strange shape was. Then she grew cold, for it wasn't a round smooth head which she felt, but a bony little baby's bottom.

"Magdalena," she whispered. "Go into my basket. Take out the red candle, and the image of the Blessed Virgin. You know what to do."

White-faced, Magdalena placed the image and candle on the mantelpiece. After she had lit the candle, up from it rose some musky perfume which she couldn't name. The wax started to drip over the swirling interleaved spirals etched into the outside. Only three times before had the midwife called for this candle during births, and two of those times both mother and babe had died.

Magdalena said a quick _Ave Maria_, but the candle's strange designs reminded her of older spirits who might help as well. She hesitated, uncomfortable at first, then sent a few silent thoughts to the others. _Would God deny us their help? He made them, too, after all. _Her devotions done, Magdalena brought some water in a bowl. She had never baptized a baby before. That was a job for the priest. It was done only by the midwives when they feared the child might die.

When Magdalena returned, the midwife said in a tired voice, "Let's get her up. I want her feet flat, and her bottom almost touching the floor." Ignoring the burning pain in her own hips and shoulders, the midwife called up to the thrashing woman in her deepest and most commanding voice. "Listen to me! When you feel a pain, you must push as hard as you can. Squeeze with everything you have! Push as if your life depended on it, because it does. You must do this, woman. If your baby dies, you die too. No screaming. Do as I say!"

Reason finally reached the laboring woman. When the next pain came, she pushed with all her might. Her face grew red and her eyes popped.

"Again, woman! Harder!" Then to Félicité and Magdalena the midwife said, "Force her legs down. Don't let her stand. I want her bottom on the floor!"

"My legs! My legs are breaking!" Mme. Niemann cried out.

"Never mind. Here comes another pain. Again! Now!"

The baby's body slid out, bottom first, with a few loops of delicate cord, and the midwife saw in passing that it was a boy. . But the head could not yet be seen. Magdalena swallowed hard, almost afraid to move. _God help us, and the korrigans help us too. I don't care if the priest gets angry when I confess that I've called on them. This is a matter of a woman's life, and a little boy's as well._

The next push could mean life or death. "Magdalena, now!" the midwife called.

Magdalena quickly picked up the bowl of water and poured it slowly over the baby's exposed back and bottom, saying the ancient words of baptism. When Mme. Niemann heard the words of the rite, she reared up powerfully, her eyes rolling back into her head. As a girl, the midwife had seen a mare do the same during her labor – and she had almost broken the back of her foal in the process.

The midwife shouted, "Stop her!" Then, to Mme. Niemann, "Your life depends on this next push. Now!"

Félicité gently nuzzled the sweating, lolling head with her own. "Courage, dear. Courage."

They could see the surge before they heard the straining, hoarse cry that welled up from the foundations of Mme. Niemann's belly. She squinted like a gargoyle, and the groan seemed to go on forever. Then she wailed like a banshee, and in seconds it was over. The baby was born.

He lay in the midwife's hands, blue and silent. The midwife watched his cord intently as it continued to pulse, and waited for the first thin cry. As long as it pulsed, there was life.

The room grew very quiet. Then the baby changed from blue to pink. To the midwife, it was like watching the dawn herself come up over the hills, or as if God had come down to earth and walked among men. The midwife had lain with her husband lustily, borne eight children and delivered almost five hundred, and nothing ever prepared her for the beauty of that sight, when blue changed to pink and the first shrill cries came from a tiny mouth.

Magdalena was the first to notice the baby's face. "Dear Mother of God," she said. "Do you see that?"

The midwife turned to her and hissed, "Shut up. You never say that."

Félicité shook her head sadly, but whispered to Mme. Niemann in her ear, "It will be all right, you'll see."

It was too late.

"My baby!" she shrieked. "What's wrong with my baby? I want to see it!"

"Sit her on the birthing stool," the midwife commanded. Mme. Niemann collapsed onto the stool, her legs still wide apart. The midwife called quickly for a cloth, and wrapped the little mite in it. He was scrawny but a good length, with waxy skin. Some midwives rubbed off the wax, but she didn't. God must have put it there for a reason, so why should she take it away? The baby squirmed and moved his head around, and then she saw what had made Magdalena gasp.

There was no time to think about that right now. She took her scissors and some string from her pocket, and quickly cut and tied off the cord.

"Can someone take the child?" she called. "I have to get up," and with a grunt she rose to her feet.

Félicité looked sorrowfully into the baby's little face. Now that the room was quiet and the birth accomplished, the other maids crept forth from the kitchen, and were put to work helping Mme. Niemann into bed.

Magdalena pressed her fists into Mme. Niemann's stomach, massaging her belly with all her strength. The midwife said to Félicité, "We have to put the baby on her breast."

"Shall we cover its face?" Félicité asked.

"No, she'll have to get used to it. It's her child, after all."

Mme. Niemann lay back on the pillow half-conscious, eyes closed. She seemed indifferent to the tiny mouth rooting for her nipple. Then she opened her eyes wide as the infant took his first strong pull, and started to push the baby away. "What's wrong with it? Why does it look like that? Get it off of me!"

The weary midwife leaned her face very close to the struggling woman's. "Stop that. You need the baby to take your first milk. Do you want to bleed to death right here in your bed? Yes, there's something wrong with his face. But it's not stopping him from breathing, and he can suck. So let him suck, and the bleeding will stop. Magdalena, keep pressing."

Mme. Niemann lay back again and closed her eyes, her hands loosened, not holding the infant latched on to her breast. Félicité pulled Mme. Niemann's arm around him, and propped him up with a pillow.

_He sucks well_, the midwife observed to herself. _He's not as weak as he first looked. He's thin, but long._

"It hurts," the new mother moaned. "He's sucking too hard."

"He's supposed to suck hard," Félicité said with a laugh. "That's how the milk gets going." She inspected the infant, cheeks pumping busily now. "He's doing a fine job."

Félicité opened the new mother's nightgown to expose the other full breast, rosy in the early morning sunlight filtering through the curtain. She moved the infant to the other breast. "First one, then the other." Mme. Niemann seemed not to hear.

The midwife picked up the full, sleepy baby, and laid him in the cradle next to his mother's bed. _Dear God in heaven, look at the poor thing._ Morning sunlight streamed in full blaze over the tiny quiet face. She winced at what she saw.

The normal newborn redness of his face turned to fire on the wrinkled, convoluted skin covering the upper part of his face. It accordioned into deep rivulets, but the eyes, as far as she could see, were uninvolved. Before they closed in sleep, they looked at her with a piercing and unnerving black. The bones of the cheekbones and brow seemed more prominent than they should on a newborn. The rest of his head was rounding up nicely, after being squeezed from the birth, and was capped with a swirl of thick black hair. His perfect sea-shell ears were unaffected, pink and translucent. His mouth was as sweet as any baby's, with a little milk bubble at the corner. The unnatural skin covered the top of his nose, but the shape seemed normal enough.

_It looks as though he wears a wrinkled red mask. I wonder if it is a birth mark, or hereditary taint, or if it will fade with time. But he's healthy otherwise, with big hands and feet. _The midwife placed her finger in one of the tiny hands, and met with a surprisingly firm grip. _He's strong. He'll need to be._

_* * * * * * *_

Félicité DuBois settled in, and M. Niemann remained in Rennes. The maid brought Mme. Niemann beef tea and light meals in bed, but the mother steadfastly refused to nurse the child after her first attempt. Félicité moved her things out of her small rented cottage, leaving with a sigh her husband's warm bed, and moved into the spare bedroom. Into her bed she took the child, ignoring the cradle.

Deep in the hollow of the night he woke to nurse. The moon filled the curtains and the child filled Félicité with a swelling, overwhelming love as he pulled on her breasts hard, and pulled again.

Two weeks after the child's birth, Mme. Niemann burned with fever. The doctor came and the youngest maid cried that she'd seen this happen to her own mother, when after a few days of fever it was time to get out the mourning crepe. Félicité threatened her with a slap if she said something like that again, as it was bad luck.

Later Félicité poured enormous quantities of weedy-smelling tea into Mme. Neimann, and filled the copper tub with a foul and malodorous mixture brewed up by the midwife in desperation. When they immersed Mme. Niemann in it she raved and spat like a cat, but her fever broke and the pain in her belly went down.

Her face had come to look more and more like a skull, with the skin stretched white and thin over it, even as her child grew strong and healthy during her illness. And as Mme. Niemann refused to care for the child herself, Félicité one day approached her anxiously. Might she have leave to call for a baby nurse_? _

The ill woman waved her hand carelessly. "What does it matter? My husband will pay. He will pay for anything. Too bad he could not pay for a baby that looks human," and Félicité winced with concealed fury, for her heart had opened to the child, and she was determined that he should live and thrive.

M. Niemann wrote, saying his work on the Rennes cathedral would take a month longer than he expected. He sent money to "hire whatever servants you need," without even a mention of his wife's illness.

The midwife came by every few weeks to check on the baby. When she heard that the priest hadn't been called, she indignantly flew at Mme. Niemann, who still spent most of the day in her bed. "Magdalena baptized the child, but you know that was only conditional, as we feared for his life during the birth."

"It's of no consequence to me," Mme. Niemann replied. Then she called for the maid to bring her knitting.

The midwife looked at the curious shape. It was almost like a sock, but too large, and why were there holes in it? "What's that?"

Mme. Niemann picked up a needle, turned her dark, hollowed eyes up to the midwife, and said in a tone that brought winter into the room, "A mask."

* * * * * * *

Félicité and the midwife met next to the vegetable seller's booth early the next morning. The spring air was cool, and there were small potatoes, long delicate beans, and bundles of tiny onions, but not much else. Félicité planted her hands on her stout hips and waved her arms wildly.

"I won't have it! I don't care if she is the mistress! It's wrong and unnatural. You can't make an infant wear a mask, just because you don't like his face. Anyway, it's not as if everyone all around doesn't already know that there's something wrong with the poor thing. But he's strong and healthy, and nurses like a trooper. I can tell how the babies are doing by how they nurse."

"Of course you can."

"This one will empty you out in five minutes. I don't know where people get this stupid idea that it's the mother who makes the milk. It's the baby who makes the milk, because the more he pulls out, the more the mother makes."

"Everyone knows that. But how can Mme. Niemann be made to see reason?"

"She still refuses to call for the priest. I am thinking of walking right over to the rectory myself. She says she and the child are cursed by God, and there's nothing the priest can do for either of them. The only thing that holds me back is that I don't want to lose my place. You know what most wet nurses are like. They drink, they feed the child water from the well or milk from the cow when they think no one sees, and the children sicken and die. They don't pay me any more than a wet nurse who does those things, but my babies mostly live. Perhaps my mistress doesn't care if this baby lives or dies."

"I think she cares. Otherwise she would have dismissed you weeks ago, and no one would have noticed if the child had died of starvation. What's the death of another baby, so the thinking goes."

"M. Niemann comes back tomorrow. I will speak to him."

"As if anyone can. I have never seen a man with so few words in him, and any that do escape his mouth are all about the stone, or building, or how some house has been built. He cornered my husband at the market one Saturday because Georges mentioned something about our roof. The man talked to him for twenty minutes about different kinds of slate tiles. But for him to pay attention to the problems of his family, think again."

"Why did he even marry?"

"He is a man, after all. And I think he wanted sons, as every man does."

"I heard he got her cheap," Félicité said with spite.

"I wouldn't put it that way," the midwife said. "She was fourteen, when her father was killed by a carriage in the streets of Rouen. As a girl, she and her mother moved here because some family member took them in, but that relative died too. Then the mother and girl brought in washing to feed them both.

"The mother was doing M. Niemann's wash, and one day he happened to pick up the load from the girl, rather than the mother. Then I believe he was in his early forties, and she was only fifteen. He asked the mother if he could marry her, and she said, no, come back next year, thinking that he was insulting her. You know how he always speaks in that flat voice, with no feeling. You can't tell if he's joking, or mocking, or what.

"But he wasn't joking, even though the mother forgot about it. It was almost twelve months to the day when he came back, with his weekly bundle of dirty shirts and sheets as usual, and said to her mother, 'She's sixteen now. Will you let me have her?' The mother had forgotten entirely about all it.

"He had money," the midwife went on. "I remember when he started building that house of his, almost twenty years ago. He did most of the work himself. It made him terribly strong, cutting the stone, hauling it, and then building the house from the foundations up, over all those years. It's not surprising she married him. He was tall, with a dark face, and more black than grey in his hair then."

"I've never seen him."

"I know," the midwife said, gentler now. "You had just come here, and then gave your little one back to God."

Both women crossed themselves. Then Félicité said, "I'm torn about living at the Niemann's. I miss Jean in the night, but Jean wants another baby, another chance at a son. Before I moved out, he wouldn't leave me alone about it. He's impatient, and I'm not. It's good money there, but that woman maddens me. Was she that wild as a girl?"

"Not at all. She was placid then, almost too much so. But let me go on. So the washerwoman said, 'I must ask my daughter if she'll have you." As I heard it, M. Niemann looked the girl up and down, with her hair up under a kerchief, her arms red and chafed from the soap, and said in that cold voice of his with no feeling, 'She'll have me. It's better than washing clothes.' As it turned out the girl did agree without much convincing. After all, with those shoulders broad as that oak tree in their garden..."

"Well, as you said, it's better than washing clothes. But that was five years ago, and there has been no child until now. Did she come to you for herbs?"

"Never. I knew people were talking and looking at me out of the corners of their eyes, as they do whenever a young and healthy wife is barren. Nor did she ever come to me for help in getting a child, either, and it wasn't my place to seek her out. But I noticed that from the beginning of their marriage, M. Niemann was gone for weeks and then months at a time, and when he was back, it was only for a few days. If you don't sow much seed, you don't get much of a crop. But tell me about these masks."

"She wants to put them on her child," Félicité said with disgust. "I take them off right away. But when I am out of the house, she puts them right back on. He cries and fusses, and it makes that funny skin on his face just that much worse. Perhaps you can come by and talk some sense into her. As for me, I'm going to speak to M. Niemann when he returns tomorrow. Think - it's been over two months, and he hasn't even seen his son. If he doesn't go to the priest - and I think he should, it's his duty as a father - then I'll go myself. The child doesn't even have a name!"

With this indignation fresh in her mind, Félicité returned with a basketful of bread and vegetables to find the house in an uproar. Mme. Niemann had collapsed in tears, and the child was screaming like a cat on the roof at night. The baby nurse was nowhere to be seen.

Félicité dropped her basket in the kitchen and rushed to the miserable little figure in the cradle. Convulsed with rage, he struggled against the knit cotton mask his mother had once more bound to his face. Félicité picked him up, and with trembling fingers tried to pull it off, but Mme. Niemann had fixed ties on this one, with hard knots. Try as she might, Félicité could not remove them with her fingernails. She set the screaming infant down and went to her sewing box for a pair of scissors, and soon had it off.

The child's face was on fire with pain, anger, sweat, his skin chafed and irritated. Félicité hadn't cursed since the days of her youth, but she cursed now under her breath - full, rich words that she'd thought she'd forgotten. As she comforted the child with the soft bounty of her breast, she knew she'd have to go see the priest tomorrow anyway, if only to confess the outpouring of hatred that had come out of her mouth.

As he sucked hungrily, the familiar sweetness filled Félicité, and she gently stroked his arm. Some babies minded if you touched them while they nursed, but this one didn't. His mother's weeping, and the anxious, inaudible voice of the maid faded into the background as the child, now full, rested his tired little face upon her breast. Tears stood in Félicité 's eyes as his reddened upper face reverted to its more normal color. She rocked him back and forth as tears streamed freely down her face, and finally, nestled in his cradle, he fell asleep.

Félicité then advanced on Mme. Niemann as if she were the mistress and the Mme. Niemann a wayward servant girl having hysterics. In her anger Félicité had forgotten to button up her dress. "What were you thinking of with that scene?" she cried.

Mme. Niemann sobbed and writhed on the floor like an unruly child, her matted hair all wet with tears and fallen down around her shoulders. The maid looked up at Félicité, unmoving, as Mme. Niemann pounded the carpet with her fists in impotent rage.

Félicité went to the bureau, where the maid had put a freshly-cut bouquet. She threw the blossoms to the floor, and poured the contents of the vase over the hysterical woman's head. Shocked and drenched, Mme. Niemann stared up at Félicité . The wet nurse's full breasts poured out of her unbuttoned dress, her nipples large and brown. Her strong arms were planted firmly on her formidable hips, and her face was terrible, carved in stone.

"You have a child." Félicité bit off each word and spit it onto the floor in front of the silent and shocked woman. "You cannot cover his face like that. You cannot let him scream like that. Do you want him to die? Is that it? I don't care if you throw me out. I won't have that on my hands! I'm going into the village to get the priest now. Maybe he can talk some sense into you! Maybe he needs to exorcise the demon that's gotten inside of you!"

At the word "demon," Mme. Niemann began to sob and writhe again.

"No, Madame," the maid said, "please stop that …"

"I don't want him! He's horrible to look at. He's a curse from God upon me for my sins," and she wailed even louder.

"That's what confession is for," Félicité snapped. "That's why I need to get the priest. Until you cleanse your soul, the devil will lay his riding crop right across your backside, and ride you like a mare in heat until you drop down dead."

Mme. Niemann wailed even louder, then threw her head back and rolled up her eyes so only the whites showed. Félicité reached forward and slapped her, and the sound of her slap corresponded precisely with the slam of the heavy wooden front door.

Félicité jumped backward with a loud cry of fear. The maid fell against an end table, sending it crashing to the floor. The child in Félicité 's room started to scream again. Mme. Niemann sat in abject silence, and all eyes turned to the tall dark figure who had just entered the room.

Alphonse Niemann looked around at the three women, the broken glass, the discarded flowers, heard the infant howls, and said nothing.

A large red handprint formed on Marguerite's left cheek.

"I want to see my son," he said in a voice so cold, flat, and nasal, it sounded as if it were made by some mechanical instrument, and not a man.

Félicité ran to fetch the squalling baby, stuffing her breasts back into her dress as she went. When she picked the child up, he quieted and began to nuzzle. "Not now, little fellow," she said. "You have to meet your Papa." _Dear God, I hope the midwife told him of the child's affliction._

When Félicité held the child out to his father, he did not take him at first. He grabbed her arm in a pincer grip, pulling her and the child close, terribly close to him. His long, Roman beak of a nose came almost into her face, and she could see the many lines around his deep-set, dark eyes and full mouth, lines full of dust that never quite washed out. His eyes held no warmth as he looked at the child with a quizzical expression.

"You're the wet nurse," he said. It wasn't a question.

Félicité stood silent. He could not only dismiss her from her post; if M. Niemann wished, she could be arrested for striking her mistress. The child felt her fear and started to whimper.

M. Niemann continued to stare at his face. "Are babies supposed to look like that?" he finally asked.

"He was born that way, sir," she gulped out. "I was present at his birth. You can call for the midwife if you wish. The doctor has seen him, and he says it's not a birth mark. It's as if the skin on that part of his face just … just grew wrong."

"Is it like that anywhere else?" M. Niemann asked, still not touching the child.

"No, sir, he's whole everywhere else, and very healthy and strong otherwise. Please, sir, you have to hold him. It's not fitting otherwise. Please."

M. Niemann looked at her blankly, as if her words made no sense to him at all. So Félicité pushed the child onto his broad, flat chest, and at last he seeemed to understand what was expected of him. His large hands reached up, without knowing where to go.

"Look, sir, like this. One hand under his head and shoulders - see, his neck's still a little weak. All babies are like that at this age. Then the other one goes under his bottom. Now, that's right. See what a good little fellow he is?"

The child looked up at the man and smiled. M. Niemann didn't smile back. Félicité pinched her nails into her hand, to avoid crying again.

Then he handed the child back to Félicité , who put him protectively up against her breast. He turned to his wife, who had managed to pull herself up onto a chair. "What's his name?"

She stared at the floor.

"He hasn't been formally baptized, sir," Félicité stammered. "There were some difficulties at his birth, and the midwife's assistant baptized him. We feared for his soul if we lost him. But … but Madame has not yet had the priest over, or taken him to the church." It was difficult for Félicité to keep a small note of accusation out of her tone. "Sir, if I might ask, what should be the child's name? Please, as his father, you have to tell us."

M. Niemann held his hands out for the infant. Félicité watched him grasp him perfectly, just as Félicité had showed him, and put the baby against his chest, just as Félicité had done. _It's all imitation. The way he looks at us, the way he holds the infant, it doesn't come from inside of him. He watches, and remembers, and then does what he sees us do. But he's beautiful, God help me for thinking it with his wife right here in the room. He got quite an eyeful when he walked in the door, and he didn't even react. _Her face grew hot as she remembered it. _Is he really that pure, pure to the point of idiocy, or does nothing show on his face? Has nothing touched him? Perhaps this child can. _

"His name," his father said, "is Alberich. Alberich Bernard. One of you women go call for the priest."

His wife glared cold blue daggers at him.

As the maid ran out the door, M. Niemann held the baby in his arms for a long time, until the child started to nuzzle and squirm.

"Here," said Félicité , but M. Niemann kept him in his arms.

"How often does he eat?"

"About four times a day, but more if he wants, and once or twice at night."

"Do you need a nurse?"

She felt bold and wild now, and looked hard at Mme. Niemann. "Yes, Monsieur. I need one that won't leave whenever she feels like it."

"Find another one, then."

"With your leave, sir, it's up to the mistress."

M. Niemann cast a withering look at the crumpled figure crouched on the settee, but he spoke to Félicité. "It's up to me. Get another nurse. Feed this child and see that he's cared for."

Feeling even more reckless, Félicité said, "One more thing, Monsieur. Maybe it's not my place, but it's wrong to force a mask on the child. It hurts his skin and makes it worse."

"A mask?" M. Niemann asked. "What for?"

Mme. Niemann now stared red with anger. "So I'm not shamed!"

_You shame yourself,_ Félicité thought. Then M. Niemann handed the child to her. He picked up one of his wife's knitted creations, examined it for a few seconds as if he didn't recognize what it was, then tossed it aside. It landed at Félicité 's feet.

Through the window, Félicité saw the priest come through the gate and up the walk. Ignoring Mme. Niemann's sharp stares, she picked up the little knitted mask and tossed it into the fire.

(_Continued_ ...)


	3. Under the Green Dome

Under the Green Dome

**A/N:** _Thank you, Jennie, for the Swedish tips, and for looking over this chapter._

The Eclectic Theater brooded over the old square like a Byzantine temple. Its green dome glinted in the afternoon sunlight, and all roads led to it. The young woman with strawberry-blonde hair dodged carts and carriages as she crossed the wide boulevard, and Paris swirled around her in some great dance which she was still learning. There were so many couples, the women in their pale dresses and enormous flowered hats, hanging on to the arms of the men so fine in their dark afternoon waistcoats.

Sweeping through the crowd, this way and that, dodging mud thrown up from the wheels of a carriage, on the girl went to her audition. The Eclectic Theater was one of Paris's oldest, a jewel crafted by architect Pierre-Bernadin Boudreaux for Napoleon Bonaparte as a wedding gift for Marie Louise of Austria.

Her hands sweated all on her portfolio. _Pappa was so glad to find it. This Moroccan leather is still as fine and beautiful as when he bought it, years before I was born. It will last forever, he said. Such a shame that he put so little in it, except for a few fragments. At least I won't sweat all over the music. It cost enough to get this score transcribed for soprano and piano. I don't feel nervous, not exactly, but I must be. _

The Empress of France's tastes had run to the exotic. Three layers of columns loomed over the theater's entrance. The great green dome itself seemed to float over the half-domes that hugged the building like children hug the skirts of their mother. It all made Kristina Sigurdsdotter feel very small. Go to the side entrance near where the carriages wait, her note had said, and from there proceed to the auditions, which were to be held in the auditorium. She was early, for it took practically no time at all to walk from her small apartment on Rue Philippe de Lyon to the plaza here.

The canopied entrance pushed out of the side of the building like a blister. She walked under a tall arch held up by columns, and ran her hand over the smooth marble of one as she passed. Little flecks and veins of brown ran through the almost-golden marble. Late afternoon sun made the theater's outside walls blaze as if they'd been bronzed. But on the east side, in shadow, the cool brown marble waited for the next day's sun to bring it to life.

A group of three women stood smoking next to the entrance, and one called out to her, "You, Red, you here for the audition?"

Kristina walked over to the group of two young girls and a woman who looked to be in her thirties, with bright hennaed hair. _This one is calling me "Red?" _"I am, but what's red about me?"

The bright-haired woman took a drag on her long brown cigarette and laughed, hoarse and throaty. "What do you call that hair, if not red?"

"It's just a trick of the sunlight. I do have a name, though. How about you?"

"Camille Letourneau." Her handshake was firm, like a man's. She didn't introduce the two girls.

"Kristina Sigurdsdotter."

"That's a mouthful. What are you, Norse?"

"I'm from Sweden, from Uppsala."

"Uppsie-daisy," simpered one of the girls, a blonde with a sharp nose. She wore a gold crucifix at her throat, which twinkled as she dragged on her cigarette.

"Maybe I'll call you 'Svenska.' It's easier to say," the older woman said.

"It might be easier, but it's not right. It should be 'Svenskan.'"

Camille waved her cigarette around. "Sounds like something you'd call a man." She gave Kristina an appraisal so swift, so up-and-down, that it might have been bestowed by one of those louts who lounged on the street corners, evaluating every woman who walked past. "But there's not much manly about you." One of the girls snickered, and then cut it off as Camille raised her dark brown eyes towards her. "So, Svenska," and she pronounced it hard, tolerating no argument, "I've been watching the new fish swim in for the past half hour. Not much in that catch, it looks like, except maybe you. You're early, by the way. They moved the audition back to four o'clock instead of three. You might as well go in and look the place over."

"I've been here before," Kristina said, stiffly. "We used to come over here from the New Music Institute, for recitals."

"Oh, the Institute," Camille said archly, and both girls wagged their heads like monkeys. "I'm surprised they didn't roll out the red carpet. But that's probably only for the National Conservatory students. It must get tiresome over there, playing second violin all the time to the Conservatory, no?"

"I suppose you studied at the National Conservatory?"

Camille laughed from the belly, loud and braying. "I didn't go to school to learn to sing. I learned it on the boards ..."

"And in the bed," one of the girls remarked.

"Hold your tongue, little finch," Camille said. "I've forgotten more in that department than you'll ever know."

"So why are you here, Mlle. Letourneau?" Kristina said, making her cool blue eyes as cold as she possibly could. "Or is it Madame?"

This prompted another snickering fit from the girls. "Oh, it's definitely Mademoiselle," the other one piped up, and her friend slapped at her playfully. Camille just smiled and said, "I lead the soprano section in the chorus, and I'm one of the understudies for the great and illustrious La Renata, the reigning queen of our humble stage. How could you miss her new poster?"

Kristina had walked right past it, but there it was, showing a ponderous and heavy-breasted woman with black hair piled on her head, trying and not succeeding to look like a Verona maid of fourteen. "Understudies?" she asked. "She has more than one? I've heard of La Renata, but I've never heard her sing."

"They don't hear her sing that much around here, either. She missed half her performances last season. It's not fun to be fat and fifty, I guess."

"She does seem to be a woman of substance."

"She's on her way out; she just doesn't know it yet. Good luck, Svenska," Camille said as she turned away to resume conversation with her friends, ignoring the exasperated flicker which crossed Kristina's face.

_A strange woman. _Kristina passed under the marble archway into the theater itself. Inside, the walls were lined with green marbles of different patterns, like a cold and shiny patchwork quilt. Above her the curved roof of the half-dome soared, painted in airy, twisting flowers and vines of the same cool greens and pinks. There was a corridor up ahead, but she hesitated, not knowing which way to go.

"Looking for the stage entrance?" a small, reedy voice piped up. It came from an odd little man, fat and bald, with a bright red- and gray-checkered vest under his shabby grey coat. He fixed the girl with a beady, glittering eye and smiled a grin so wicked that it made her want to laugh. He had to be at least in his sixties, perhaps seventy even, but supple and spry.

"I am, but it seems I'm early."

"That you are. A gear wheel broke and a set piece fell. They're still fixing it. How about a tour beforehand? This is where you say, I've been here before, and I know all about it, and this is where I say, my tours are always off the beaten path. Am I right?"

"I admit that was on the tip of my tongue."

"I'll give you a tour, if you give me that piece of toffee you have in your purse."

"What piece of toffee?" She opened her little velvet bag, and sure enough, there was an old piece of toffee wrapped in blue paper, down at the very bottom.

He held his hand out for it, and grasped it greedily, as if he was a child.

"How did you know it was there?" she asked.

He grinned at her again, and walked down the corridor, running his hand along the wall. Some trick of the light made the marble look like it rippled, as if he ran his hand through water. "Have you ever heard of the Hagia Sophia?" he asked.

There was no one else in the hall. Kristina's clicking heels echoed on the floor, making tiny echoes on the chilly green marble, but the fat little man's made no sound. "No. It sounds Greek."

"It is. It's Greek for 'holy wisdom.' It was the greatest cathedral in the world in the sixth century." They came into the airy grand foyer, where the sun slanted through the three tiers of columns that framed the windows. Tall inner doors led to the auditorium, and the walls glittered with gold-flecked marble in a riot of patterns: speckles, stripes, and even some that looked like thick red veins moving through flesh.

"Maurice Boudreaux loved Hagia Sophia more than any other building," the little old man went on. "He loved it so much that he told Emperor Napoleon that if Justinian of Rome could build his temple in five years, he could do the same for Paris."

"Can we go up the stairs?" she asked.

"Certainly," he said. "Do you like to climb? I'll bet you would like to climb all the way up to the roof."

"Can we?"

He nodded, and went into a little half-circle niche off the main foyer. He pushed aside a green velvet curtain, and there was a little door, barely big enough for him to fit in, and she had to crouch over almost by half to get through. It led to a tiny winding staircase in a stuffy narrow stairwell. He let her go ahead of him, and all that wending way up she felt him behind her, like warmth. She wanted to turn around and look at him, but when she tried, the twisty catwalk gaped far below her, dozens of meters, and she grabbed the rail and swayed.

"This isn't too much for you, is it, darling?" the little man asked.

"Not at all. Let's keep going," and the stairwell ended at a door not much bigger than the first. She tried the handle, and it swung open, flooding the dim narrow stairway with liquid gold.

She stepped out into a flood of late-afternoon sun. The flat roof was squarish and filled almost entirely with the enormous emerald dome. The city lay open beneath her all gray and green and blurred.

"Wait, I need my spectacles to see." Normally vanity made her keep them in her bag, but there was no need to impress the little man, who had put his toffee in his mouth and sucked it busily with loud slurps. He had pulled on a squashed gray hat decorated with a short red feather, which made him look more comical than even before.

The landscape focused sharply into view, and all Paris spread out below, forested with dark patches of trees in some spots, and glittering with white marble or grey stone in others. To the southwest wound the fat grey-blue snake of the River Seine. Near the great Louvre museum stood a wide bare spot, gaping and empty. The workmen had long since carried away the hulking and burned-out ruins of the Tuilleries Palace and its gardens, never rebuilt since the war over a quarter-century earlier which had toppled the last of Napoleon's line. Like a spear pointing towards heaven, the tip of Monsieur Eiffel's new tower broke through the green haze of the southwestern part of the city.

"It's splendid," she cried. "I wish there was a way to go to the top of the dome."

"Oh, there is," he said, "but you're not ready for it yet. Be glad you're up this high; I don't show this sight to just anyone, you know."

"I'm surprised the theater doesn't have parties up here for the subscribers. If it's this beautiful now, what would it look like at night?"

"Perhaps you'll find out someday," he laughed.

The roof's dome was covered in thick green tiles with a sharp, shiny glaze. On the top was a kind of cupola that looked like copper, streaked with blue-green. Kristina walked around as far as she could, to the shadowed eastern size, where the small grey Comic Opera peeked up from a circle of green like a tooth, and the broad white Rue de Richelieu split the green clumps down the middle.

"I can't see my building," Kristina complained. "It's over there somewhere, east of the Comic Opera." Farther east, the trees faded out, to be replaced with wide industrial flats and factories whose smokestacks left black stains on the sky.

"Had enough?" the little man said after a time. He had swallowed his entire toffee.

She pulled her cashmere shawl closer against the wind. "It's like flying. I wish I had wings, to just soar around."

He chuckled. "Sometimes that can be arranged, but not tonight."

"Now you're teasing me. That's not very kind."

"Back to business. Down we go."

The climb down was less dizzying than up. Slightly dazed, she let him lead her into a dingy brown wing where the gaslights seemed turned too low. "This is the office corridor. I stay away from here," and he laughed, but not at her.

"It looks quite normal, not all done up with marble and paint like the rest."

"They had to save money somewhere."

"So what do you do here?"

"I'm the door-keeper. I keep the place in order and do a little of everything. But back to Boudreaux. He had to dig down deeper than he ever thought, and there was all that water, from the old Roman bath, you know."

"I don't," Kristina said. "There's a Roman bath here?"

"Apparently Boudreaux wasn't the first to stage entertainments on this bit of real estate. According to the old Romans, the water was supposed to heal, or so they said. So he didn't get to build his temple in five years after all. He started it, but only managed to drain the old baths and lay the foundations. You see, Justinian's builders wanted the water, but Boudreaux didn't. Made no difference to the water, though. It's still down there."

"I should love to see it."

"Would you now? Perhaps someday you will," he said, and gave her such a thorough looking-over that she shivered. Unlike Camille Letourneau's, it wasn't rude, and there was no lechery in it. Instead, it was complete, and she felt sized up and measured inside and out. "Yes. You'll do. You'll do very well."

The short gold hairs crept on her arms. "Where is everyone? It's the peak of the afternoon, and there's not a soul around."

"You'll see them again soon enough," he said. "But you have some time yet. I know a place you'll really want to see." He led her down a stairwell at the end of the office wing, which opened into a wide and tall stone corridor lit by bluish gas flames. It smelled of horse, and she dodged a few clots of manure at her feet.

"The stables!" Kristina exclaimed. There they were, about fifteen roomy and clean stalls lined up, most of them occupied, and again, no one around. The little man went over to a fat white Andalusian, who nickered and whinnied happily to see him. "He's a fine one," he remarked. "A really intelligent horse. We have some good conversations. He complains that he doesn't get enough exercise."

_What a quirky little man._ "He's a bit porky, I'll admit."

The plump horse whinnied in irritation and shook his head. "Don't insult him," said the little man. "It's not his fault. They always keep more horses than they need here, and they won't listen to me."

On the far side of the stable, wide double doors led to a ramp up to the street. "I used to ride all the time when I was a little girl," she mused. "Does anyone ride these horses?"

"If they go out at all," he said, "they're mostly hitched to carriages. Except for this one over here. He gets out for his exercise."

They walked over to a black Friesian who eyed them with implacable calm.

"He's beautiful. He seems so out of place here."

"One of the rich men, the patrons, died and left the horse to the theater in his will. The fellow was an idiot anyway. What would they do with another horse, especially a black one? He can't work on stage; the lights and the noise scare him. So he lives down here."

"I'd love to ride him. But I don't suppose you keep sidesaddles in the tack room down here. At least someone takes him out."

"Oh, yes," the little man laughed. "Indeed. But you have an audition, and it's time to go back."

At the stage door entrance, he turned to her once more with that penetrating, all-encompassing glance. Just as she was about to enter, she remembered her manners and turned to say good-bye, but he was gone, as if he'd vanished into the air. Stranger still, the silent corridor suddenly rustled, as if it had come to life. A few girls clutched their musical scores and brushed past her with critical glares, sizing up the unwelcome competition. A fat blond man carrying an armload of papers rushed as fast as he could go through the hall, red in the face from exertion. Then the corridor's noises returned, sharply contrasting with the eerie silence of before - the chatter of women, the clicks of heels on marble, the echo of men talking animatedly with each other, the smell of cigar smoke and the alcohol scent of cheap perfume.

Kristina spun around, suddenly dizzy, and a tall brunette next to her said, "Either go in, or step aside." Squinting in the dark, she caught glimpses of odd brown and gold shapes in the auditorium's crevasses. Too nervous to get a closer look at the twisting statues, she blindly followed the girls in front of her to the stage. Workmen bustled about, but a tall man in a long frock coat was arguing with a burly fellow who must have been their foreman, telling them that they had to leave, or be silent. One of the men remarked, "Just so long as they pay us. I can stand here all afternoon." As the men put their tools down, the great room grew gradually quieter.

The soft silence had almost settled with the dust, when a stocky man with bristling black brows clapped his hands for attention.

"Ladies," he called. "Ladies, listen to me. You'll wait here in the wings, in line, and I'll call each of you by name. Then you'll come out onto the stage and hand your music to the accompaniest. Make sure to retrieve it when you're done, as we have enough sheet music of our own around here, I can assure you. I welcome you all, and wish you the best of luck."

(_Continued _…)


	4. Behind the Walls

**Behind the Walls**

**A/N**: Thanks, Jennie, for looking this chapter over. Also, thanks to Laura for squeeing in all the right places.

Alberich Niemann glanced out over the balcony of the Eclectic Theater's Box 17 as the girls from the music schools filed in for their auditions. Dust covered his clothes and tickled his skin, but he remained entirely silent as their voices, piping or shrill or oboe-mellow, floated upward to his perch. He had been around long enough to know that some would stay, but most would go, into shops or marriages to artisans, or into the brothels of La Pigalle.

Listening to singers was beginning to bore him. He had been working at the Eclectic Theater for a year now, and while the lucrative task of converting the structure from gas to electric lights filled his days and many of his nights as well, he missed the smack of the chisel under his hand; the shock of the splitting blow as it moved up his arm; the nascent form coming to life under the strength of patient chipping. He missed the days when he would run his hand over a piece of granite or limestone as if over a woman's body, feeling the for the outlines of the shape he knew was inside. He used to caress these cold flanks and wonder if this was the one that would spring to life in a way he had never before experienced - one that might even step down from the pedestal like Galatea and give him a kiss.

A kiss. Even though it was chilly in the theater, an itching awoke in him as something crawled under his skin that he could not quite reach.

Well, enough of that for now. He resumed threading copper wire through ceramic tubes and placing them neatly along the gas lines which so soon now would be turned off, forever. The Eclectic Theater was finally going to be electrified. The glow of incandescent lighting would eventually fill this old temple of Thalia, as it now illuminated so many of the public buildings of Paris.

His men, most of them Algerians who had come back with him to Paris, worked in the adjoining boxes. He could no longer hear their soft voices talking in their own melodic language. They had ceased abruptly, as soon as Monsieur de Carnac gave the first snap of the baton.

Alberich could have let his men run the wires on their own, and sat himself down in one of the plush maroon chairs to enjoy the singing. However, he had found that when he worked alongside his men, encouraging them in their French, sharing their jokes and their lunches of bread and hummus, the wires went in so much more quickly. There was a bonus for completing earlier than scheduled, a large one, and he intended to earn it.

The piping and warbling continued, and he shifted restlessly, anxious over the other contract he'd won from the Eclectic Theater. The pumps that kept the old Roman bath in the theater basement needed constant attention to keep free of flooding. It might as well be my theater, he thought to himself, for in some ways it was. There was too little bureaucratic competence or money for maintenance, and the government engineers were lazy. Had Alberich not paid attention to the state of the tunnels and archways of that underground honeycomb, the passages would have flooded out long ago, or those in the theater would have choked on noxious gases, for the sewers which led to the Seine flowed uncomfortably close.

The sweat and dust irritated his face as his hand played over his rough, corrugated features. Setting down a pair of wire cutters, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the velvet curtain.

His eyes snapped open as a rich soprano melody floated up to the dimly-lit perch, and he leaned over to see what nightingale produced such tones. She was a Teutonic beauty, a little taller than the others, with bright hair like a lambent flame. She reminded him of a fruit grown in his native Rennes, the one they called a "honey strawberry." When ripe, its flesh deepened to rich yellow with a blush of coral. The sparkling golden seeds got into your teeth as you bit into one, toothmarks revealing white firmness with a dash of pink.

Her shoulders were broad and her chest deep. The notes came from far down within her and floated up effortlessly, but she seemed disinterested and disjointed from her surroundings, as if she did not, or could not, fully concentrate on the tones. Her audition piece, "O Sorgio, Padre," should have brought everyone to tears, but she conveyed little sadness in her cold and flawless rendition.

Up floated her song, up to the velvet curtains of the boxes, and into the shadow where he stood. His heart gave a little jump as she looked straight at his shadowy niche, and then looked away as if she couldn't see him.

When de Carnac signaled for the next girl, the golden beauty walked slowly to the sidelines as if in a dream. Then she looked up and around at her surroundings, as if seeing them anew, taking them in like a country girl in Paris for the first time.

He looked around at the auditorium along with her, trying to imagine it through her eyes. Sculpted forms of twisted Indian goddesses with their halo of arms, and placid and dreaming Brahmas reclining on their side hid in the niches which ringed the room. The dome with its hanging chandelier imitated in miniature the old Hagia Sophia cathedral. Boudreaux wanted to recall the glory of that vast Byzantine city before Hagia Sophia became a mosque, and so the Eclectic Theater had a dome but no minarets. Around its circumference, painters had created gold and umber angels in thick paint which glittered like mosaic.

As the next girl chopped her way through something that sounded like a Schiller _lied,_ the red beauty left the stage and his field of view. Entirely alert now, he wondered who she was. He had seen many of the National Conservatory and New Music Institute girls pass through the Eclectic Theater before, but where had she been? With that tropical hair, who could miss her? She would be splendid as Brunhilde, a flame within the fire, with marvelous bosom and shoulders, but her voice was blue with cold. It needed to be warmed, to be softened, to be made to glow like the rest of her.

One box over, Eugene Devereaux, business manager of the Eclectic Theater, and his musical director Evann Blanchette sat together and commented on the auditions. If Alberich put his ear up against the ventilation shaft which the two boxes shared, he could hear them clearly.

"We should sign the Swedish girl," Blanchette said.

"Isn't she the extravagant blonde?"

"More Gretchen than Marguerite, I know, but she has a good tone and stage presence. Those who like that sort of thing will enjoy seeing her in breeches, too, although she's too much the 'eternal feminine' for my taste."

Devereaux snorted, as if he'd inhaled too much water. "She'll fill the trousers out all right. As for you, everything's too feminine for your taste."

"I mean, that wild hair and figure make her look like a Valkyrie."

"She's lived in Paris for a few years, took a prize at the Institute, but only a second," Devereaux said. "Before that she lived in Sweden, a farm girl. That kind we can sign up cheaply, as they don't know what they're worth."

"I'll talk to de Carnac. Look at him down there, listening to all that yodeling. I'm surprised he hasn't started shrieking yet. But that blonde one, I liked her sound, and I'll take your word for it that she'd look good in trousers."

The two men continued to laugh, and then the sound cut off abruptly as the door to their box slid open, then shut.

The rest of the audition held no interest for Alberich, and so he left the box and headed down for the pump room cellar. There he worked busily, concerned for the erratic machine, but needing to cool his own blood as well. He put his face against the wet stone wall for only a moment. It would not do for him to spend all afternoon in the pump room, so he finished up, replaced the tools carefully and slunk out into the blue-lit corridor.

He wanted to know who she was. And there was a way to find out.

* * * * * * * *

Alberich waited in a niche in the hallway for an hour before Devereaux and Blanchette finally left their offices. He had told Devereaux he had wanted to begin the wiring in his office first, as befitted his status as director of the theater, but Devereaux had rebuffed him in irritation. He had too much to do, he said, and as far as he was concerned, there was nothing wrong with gas lights anyway. The theater's governing board had pressured him into this fool scheme, and it was only out of respect for them that he had agreed to do it. That didn't mean, however, that he would have workmen - and he gave Alberich a hard look when he said that - tromping about and cluttering up his office. He would be the one to tell Alberich when he could come in, and that was that.

So that left two alternatives. Alberich could wait, or he could act.

In the course of working in the adjacent offices, he had discovered a concealed entry to a ventilation shaft. The Eclectic Theater was full of old hidden passageways like that, and Alberich and his men used them to install their miles of copper wiring, rather than cutting through walls, as the tunnels and passageways gave them wide access through which to run wires. Money that otherwise would have gone to pay for plaster, lathe, and the plasterers' labor stayed in Alberich's pocket, and some of it always made its way into the pockets of his men as well, because he wanted them to share in his good fortune, whenever he had it.

Devereaux had made a production of locking his office door, glaring at Alberich all the time. So into the ventilation shaft Alberich slipped, crossing behind the rows of offices. He counted over three, and went into another shaft right in between Blanchette and Devereaux's domains. He didn't want to get directly into Devereaux's office anyway, but rather the one immediately adjacent, which belonged to the office administrator, René Gicard.

One interesting result of moving through the ventilation shaft was that if he turned to the right or left, and put his head up against either of the ventilation grilles, he could hear clearly anything being said inside either office. But this time there was no one to listen to, and he had to get in. Sweat ran down his back as he worked the clips which held the paneling to the wall. Normally he wouldn't have entered the offices anyway; he had no reason to, and the theater's private police patrolled the halls at night occasionally - when they weren't too drunk, that is. Alberich felt exposed and vulnerable there, but desire overcame fear.

Monsieur Gicard's employment as Monsieur Blanchette's assistant relied on his ability to scout out the best clubs for gentlemen whose tastes ran to youths of both sexes, of a particularly sullen and debased sort. In the souks of Algiers Alberich had seen young ones like that, whose despairing almond-shaped eyes lured men into doorways off the back alleys. Whether in northern Africa or Paris, the young and desperate poor were everywhere. Gicard knew precisely where to find them, and how much Blanchette would have to pay to satisfy both his pleasure and his need for discretion. Had music director de Carnac recommended the red-gold singer for a position, Gicard would have a copy of her contract. On it would be her name, and perhaps even her address.

Alberich swore under his breath at the state of Gicard's files. It was clear that his other talents secured him a position at the Eclectic Theater, rather than his secretarial skills. Nothing was alphabetized or sorted by date in the drawers crammed with contracts, correspondence. Newspaper clippings flapped wildly in his hands as he rummaged under them. The dim gaslight flickered and the spidery handwriting on the files was almost unreadable.

_One thing about gas, you can never turn it off entirely_. Anyone walking past the milk-glass door of the office would see his shadow inside. He slid the drawer shut and looked around, deciding where to search next.

The doorknob rattled, and swift as a fox going to ground, he dove behind the desk, waiting for the door to swing open and for someone to shove a lantern into his face. But the invisible hand that rattled the door must have been satisfied that it was locked and moved on. As he rose, his shoe poked a box full of paperwork, and in large letters, at the very top of the pile in the box, were the words "Kristina Sigurdsdotter."

Now his heart beat very fast, and surely it must be echoing out of that room and down the hall. That had to be it. As he picked it up, he knew it was hers. Paged through the standard contract, the relatively low amount on the bottom line shocked him. She took far less than she could have gotten, he knew. She obviously had no agent or protector. He ruffled through the rest of it quickly, but there was no address, just her signature in a large, clear hand, and the date of September 24, 1890.

Kristina Sigurdsdotter. How strange, the way the Scandinavians formed their names, with the girls bearing their father's first name, followed by "dotter," and the boys the same, followed by "son." Daughter of Sigurd, that made her. Anyway, that fool Gicard should have her address here somewhere, or else how would he send her correspondence? Alberich looked on the secretary's cluttered desk, on a side table, everywhere the paper piled up in stacks, but found nothing that contained any addresses at all, least of all hers.

He stood there suffused with frustration, knowing he needed to leave, but desperately wanting not to. What he sought was in this pig-sty somewhere, but where? Then, before he knew it, the door swung slowly open. Hadn't it been locked? Gicard was a fool for leaving his door unfastened, but Alberich cursed himself for the bigger fool for not checking it. He flattened himself between a massive oak filing cabinet and the corner, daring not to breathe, hoping that his dark grey shirt kept him more concealed than black would, for this late-night wandering. What had rattled the door earlier, when he had distinctly heard the door run up against the bolt?

A lantern light filled the room, but the shadow from the filing cabinet covered him. Two men came into the room and swung the lantern around.

"There's no one here," one voice said. "What are you, such a mama's boy hanging on the tit, that you can't do your watch yourself?"

"I hear the ghost has been active in the past few weeks. I don't want to run into him on my lonesome," said the other.

"What horse-faced stupidity. There's no one here. Don't drag me from the other side of the building next time. I may not be able to get you shit-canned, but I can make your lot miserable here, believe me."

Alberich could smell the brandy even from where he crouched. Then something swung around and a large object crashed, followed by a stream of obscenities. One of the theater police must have hit the work table by the door.

"Don't shove me," the second voice said.

"Idiot, I didn't touch you. Watch where you're going."

"Don't you think we should pick it up?"

"Forget it, let them get it tomorrow. We've done our job; there's no one here."

The door clicked shut and locked. Alberich hauled in great gulps of air, panting with fear and anxiety. After a long while he crept out and stepped around the table lying on the floor, with its great mess of papers spread all around it.

Mixed in with the white pile was an envelope, meant to be mailed but perhaps forgotten. At first he couldn't form the letters, as he still shook from the watchmens' visit. _It's her name, I don't believe it_, he thought. _This letter on the floor has her name on it._ And there was her address, a small side street south of the Bourse, on the less fashionable side of the boulevard.

At least Gicard kept the dressing room assignments straight. On a large board in his office, the keys to the unassigned rooms hung on their little hooks, with a blank spot in lieu of a name underneath them. There was "Sigurdsdotter," right on the board for a dressing room assignment, under the little plaque for Dressing Room Number Seven.

At the sight of that room, at the thought of the girl in that room, Alberich's entire body shook with a long, cold shudder. He stared at the key for a few moments, unmoving and unthinking. _Why that room, of all the others? Why did it have to be that one? _He shook his head, as if that would clear his thoughts. _That explains the letter. It's got to be her notification to come in and get her dressing room key. The lazy slug didn't give it to her when she signed her contract. _ He snatched the letter and put it in his jacket pocket, then cleared out of there as quickly as he could, his flesh creeping with cold and excitement at the same time.

* * * * * * *

The next morning, as Alberich shopped for fresh rolls and cheese, he found a boy on the street idly leaning on a post, waiting for someone to hire him to run a message.

"Boy," Alberich called, "come here."

The grubby urchin strolled over. He was perhaps eleven or so years old, or maybe more if he'd hadn't had much to eat, and he stared at Alberich's face for a moment. Alberich fixed the boy with a baleful glance right back, then cleared his throat.

"I'll give you two francs to take this letter to the lady at the following address. Don't just give it to the concierge; find out from the concierge which one is her apartment, and slide it under the door. Then come back at once to me, and tell me which one she's in. No word of this to the lady, either. If you mess this up, I'll find you and box your ears, you scamp," and gave him a playful cuff on the shoulder.

The boy gaped. "Two francs? That's some message you've got there." He grinned and said, "A franc now, and one when I return, Monsieur. I'll have just what you need."

Alberich flipped the coin to him; he caught it delicately and expertly in midair, but didn't leave. "Were you in a war, Monsieur?" he asked in an impudent tone.

"Something like that."

"My grandfather had his arm blown off at a barricade during the Commune. He's lucky he wasn't shot, he was. Always used to curse those Republican bastards, though. You should have heard him. Hey, you look like gunpowder exploded in your face yourself."

"Smart boys know how to hold their tongue. Didn't anyone ever teach you that? Now go deliver my letter."

Off he ran, smirking.

Rue Philippe de Lyon was only a few short blocks away, so the boy was back fairly quickly. When he returned, he held out his hand for the remaining coin.

"Not so fast. Which one is her flat?"

"The second floor, on the left." He snatched his two francs, and gave a long whistle. "I'll run your errands anytime, Monsieur. Many thanks!" and off he ran again.

* * * * * * *

It seemed to Alberich as if night would never come. When it did, his limbs shivered as if afflicted with palsy, and his head spun so hard round that sleep was impossible. Finally, in the black just before midnight, he wrapped himself in dark grey clothes and hat, and walked swiftly to the block where Kristina's apartment stood. His soft boots made no noise on the pavement. The small side street was deserted, but a few lights in her building were still on, including the right-side flat on the second story.

This was a shabby, out-of-the-way street, and it still had gaslights. He wanted to see the building, nothing else. He didn't expect her to be out and about, as the church bells had just rung in the new day with twelve strokes. The air hung still and quiet. It was an overcast evening with no moon, and were it not for the one flickering light on the corner, the crooked narrow street would have been almost entirely dark. From the brooding quiet and the mostly-dark windows, Alberich guessed that the apartments contained mostly pensioners, or working men who had to get up with the sun.

There was her building, right on the corner. Instead of a building next to it stood a vacant lot. Decades ago there had been a fire, perhaps, or some other accident, but in this shabby street no one had bothered to rebuild, and so instead of another building a hole gaped, like a missing tooth in a mouth. Whatever stone debris which remained had been covered by a thick coat of vegetation. Right next to the corner building spread an enormous gum tree, whose feathery leaves and thick branches appeared to be full of stark, dense shadows in the streetlight's glare. He peered into the vacant lot, and an odd trick of the darkness made it seem to go on quite deeper than it did, and more thick foliage in the back obscured the courtyard, if there was one at all.

Suddenly Alberich was seized by embarrassment and a strong sense of being exposed and vulnerable. Berating himself for a fool, standing there under a girl's window like some moonstruck Romeo, he was about to turn and walk back to the Eclectic Theater when a short, squat man walked around the corner of Kristina's street. The man came into sharp silhouette under the street lamp, and he made for a comical sight, dressed in what looked like a rubber mackintosh and huge rubber boots, even though it wasn't raining. His shiny bald head gleamed in the gaslight, and he was almost as round as he was tall. From his pocket the little man took a small extendable tool which poked up higher and higher, until it reached the top of the light. Alberich had never seen an instrument like that, and stared motionless, fascinated.

A quick flash, and the gaslight flicked out like a lit match squeezed between two wet fingers. The man walked back around the corner, and the gaslight on the cross street went out as well. Another went dark. Now the corner of the apartment building of the one he sought stood unprotected against the night. Alberich could barely see in front of his nose now. The only light, it seemed, came from the second-story apartment on the left, which seemed to glow like a red-gold jewel against the velvet box of the dark. Its faint glow cast a brief spot of color on the bald little man's head as he came back around the corner again, then disappeared into the weedy hedge between the two buildings.

The quoins on the side of Mlle. Sigurdsdotter's building formed a prominent network carved into elaborate twisting leaves which didn't quite match the stern old facade. Someone added them later, Alberich thought, frowning at the mix of styles. But whoever had added that profusion of "new art" balcony and decoration had also covered the balconies with an elaborate grilled fretwork, also in the shapes of leaves and branches. It wouldn't take much to grab hold, and climb up the side of the building, cloaked as he was in the shadows of that moonless night.

A cold little voice inside said that this was madness, and why was he doing this? But he had to see her, had to know.

Cold without a cloak or overcoat, he ignored his shivers and up he climbed, using the prominent quoins on the building's corner as a ladder, until he reached the ledge that went around the second story. Gum tree branches poked him, but he was glad of the tree, as it protected him from any view from the street below. He inched himself carefully over to the tiny balcony, holding tight to a cold metal branch with its leafy spray, and looked inside the dimly-lit window.

The gaslight illuminated a sitting-room furnished with a medallion-backed settee and two winged chairs. In a large and comfortable maroon armchair sat an older lady with her hair in a loose grey chignon, knitting. Occasionally she would turn to speak to someone on the other side of the room, but the window was shut and no sound escaped. On the darkly stained mantelpiece sat two photographs in wooden frames, one of a middle aged man, and the second of a man quite old, with a wild mane of light-colored hair.

Then a figure passed in front of the older lady's chair, and Alberich clutched onto the stone to not lose his grip. It was she - in a wrapper of dark red silk, her hair unfettered in liquid glory. She brushed the red-blonde mass absently, and Zeus himself could not have covered Danae so ardently in a shower of gold as that rippling mass covered her shoulders. The gaslight played over those waves glistening with ruddy highlights stirred into life by her slow strokes.

His face burned, and panic collected in his stomach. He was perched like a cat burglar on a ledge on a dark Parisian side street, only half-hidden by a tree, looking into a window, and he could scarcely hold on as he trembled with hot blood moving through his body. Two stories was not terribly high, but he shook and clung to the stone anyway, trying not to fall. Against the limestone of the façade he rested his face, letting its coolness flow into him until he was calm enough to look into the window again.

The old lady got up, and Kristina gave her a kiss as the older one walked out of sight, no doubt going to bed. Alberich prepared to climb down the side of the building, but then the window latch gave a crack, and the window opened. He pulled back in terror. She had seen him!

But no, she put her head out the window, leaning forward on the sill with a sigh, drinking in the cool fall night air. He pulled his tall wide frame as close to the wall as he could, trying to hide behind the stone frame of the window, barely breathing. Over him washed her lemon water scent.

"Kristina!" the older lady's voice called from within. "I'm turning in now. Please close the window when you come to bed."

"In a minute," she replied. "It's a beautiful night, even though I can't see any stars."

Then a door shut. This was obviously not the strictest of mammas. Alberich rolled her name over several times with the tongue of his mind. Hearing it said by another person made her come to life, something like the difference between seeing the notes in score, and hearing them pour forth from the violin. Her French had a Scandinavian accent, with the influence of Bretagne, and even her speaking was music.

He dared to turn his head sideways, so to better see her strong profile with its clearly carved aquiline nose and well-defined chin. Her long, round throat rose in a soft column from her open robe, and the tops of her breasts shone white against her cherry-colored neckline. She looked out the window with no sign of self-consciousness or shame, resting her arms on the sill, with her hair falling down over them.

They must not be bourgeois, Alberich thought. No respectable middle-class mother would allow her daughter to hang out the window like that. Take all that beauty inside and hide it, before cold eyes on the street seize it for their own. She doesn't provoke, however. She is a country girl, like Devereaux said. She just wants to feel the the clear skies and air.

He could have reached out and touched her. He had seen beautiful women parade through the theater before, but compared to this fresh beauty, they were propped-up things of paint and corsets and sly, arch, seductive mannerisms. If she would only her speak again in that lilting accent, but she didn't.

Instead, she withdrew and shut the window, snapping shut the latch, and a few minutes later the light went out. Alberich calmed himself to the point where he could climb safely back down to the street.

Kristina, he repeated to himself all the way back to the Eclectic Theater, and as he slipped into the side door. Kristina, of Sweden. Oh, God, what is going to come of this?

* * * * * * *

A few nights later, Alberich slipped down a narrow, unused corridor at the end of the administrative offices at the Eclectic Theater. He turned a corner into an apparent dead-end, and pressed on a spot on the wall above a panel distinguished from its neighbors only by a faint water-marked stain. The panel slid aside, and Alberich crept into a passageway behind the corridor. The narrowly-lit space was full of pipes, some rusted and dripping. After a couple of twists and turns, he came out into another musty, dimly-lit corridor, and headed towards Dressing Room Number Seven. It was at the far end of a long, dim corridor, and as usual, it was vacant, as were the three around it. Most of the other dressing rooms nearby had been converted to storage closets. Every other room on the corridor which would have been suitable for a soloist was filled.

In the deep of night the gas lights had malfunctioned in the other dressing rooms along the corridor which housed Room Seven. Had Alberich known of it, he would have silently repaired them himself, without bothering to requisition any of the engineering staff, and Gicard would have been none the wiser. Alberich had a horror of gas leaks and the explosive fires which they caused. But whenever he had gone to Gicard in the past, it had been obvious that Gicard disliked Alberich's flat, blank expressions and remote manner, thinking he put himself "above his place," and so Gicard wasn't about to provide him with help in anything outside the range of Alberich's contract. Gicard never rushed when it came to preparing work orders, and was a stickler for policy as well as a procurer. The directives said that routine maintenance was to be handled by the Eclectic Theater staff, and so the work could wait. It would take weeks for the mechanics to actually put hand to tools and make the repairs.

That left only Room Seven at the end of the long corridor, with prop storage rooms on either side. It was a larger room with a full-length dressing mirror on the inside wall, a small boudoir off to the side which was separated by a dark red velvet curtain, and even a tiny bathroom. Shabby and ill-kept, because the maids often conveniently forget about it, Seven should have been highly desirable, but the singers to whom it had been assigned came to the office with one excuse after another, and soon found new accommodations. It wasn't just because of its inconvenient location. Strange rustling sounds were occasionally heard in the boudoir walls during sessions of late-night entertaining, and the rumor grew up that Room Seven was haunted.

Room Number Seven was no ordinary dressing room, besides its odd location and occasional odder noises and unexpected puffs of air. Twenty years before, during the disastrous war against Prussia, the theaters and other public buildings of Paris had been used for storing ordnance and rations, and for the sheltering of refugees. The great unfinished National Opera humbled itself to house a great munitions arsenal, bushels of wheat, and barrels of gunpowder. Even the smaller Eclectic Theater had its role to play, back in the dark days of that terrible siege, when even the sewers were bricked up so that no one could enter or leave the city, and death rained down from Prussian artillery mounted on the hills to the east of Paris.

After France surrendered to the Prussians, after a year of humiliating defeats, the revolutionaries called the Paris Commune took up residence inside the city walls, and made the Eclectic Theater one of their bases of operation. Since many of the Communards were carpenters, miners, stone workers, and skilled artisans, they tunneled out a termite mounds' worth of passageways and secret rooms beneath and through the Eclectic Theater. Curiously, they avoided the old Roman bath down below. At first Alberich attributed it to their love of the old buildings and ways of building, until he came to know better why the old revolutionaries had so carefully preserved the Roman bath's remains. In any event, Number Seven's remote location, lack of frequent habitation, and considerable size made it a perfect choice for such a Communard passageway.

Behind one of the walls of Number Seven the Communards had built a narrow corridor which ended at the wall of Number Seven, and there they inserted a pivoting wooden door. On the dressing room side, the door had been covered with wall board, but the damp had warped the board beneath it, so rather than replace it, someone had cut corners and covered the whole section with an elaborate Rococo full-length mirror. The door itself pivoted, so that by means of a series of latches on either side, it was possible to swing the door open into the little hidden corridor behind it.

Later, someone else had cut a hole in the door and replaced the mirrored glass with one that was silvered in a special way. Alberich had found it when he had first come to work on the Eclectic Theater contract, back in those days eighteen months before, when the labyrinth behind the walls offered nothing but endless amusement and exploration. He had decided it most likely hadn't been put there by the Commune fighters. More likely, some gentleman had it set up to provide a convenient vantage point from which to spy on his mistress. Later, Alberich had told Alexandrine of it as they sat in her drawing room with the red-lamped shade before going upstairs. She laughed so hard that her long filigree earrings swayed, and she remarked that the man might have wanted to watch his mistress sport with her other lovers, and then laughed even harder as understanding slowly spread over Alberich's puzzled face.

Later, some of the older Eclectic Theater workmen had told Alberich how, after the blockade of Paris was ended, their first step had been to go in to remove the manacles from the walls, and clean up some especially stubborn rust-red stains. One workman had gone around and sprinkled the whole room with holy water, but the men wondered if the ghosts had ever really departed.

Then one night, shortly after Alberich had begun working inside the Eclectic Theater's walls, he roamed the small corridors as he constructed schematics, planning where the trunks of wires were to go. It was very late, but he didn't have to go any longer to his small bare room in the Marais. He'd gotten Monsieur Devereaux to allow him the use of one of the larger, better-lit and ventilated workrooms down by the pumping station, and there he slept on a rough cot, surrounded by piles of schematic drawings, books on generators, dynamos, and electrical systems, ceramic tubing, copper wire rolls, and other detritus. From there he would venture into the Commune corridors, and eventually he found himself in the passageway behind Room Seven.

The Communards had fitted the room with an air shaft, and as Alberich came up to the right turn that led to the mirror of Room Seven, he could hear muffled conversation and movement coming from inside the dressing room.

The passageway angled sharply before coming up on the other side of the mirror, and Alberich walked blindly up to it. Then he stopped just in time to avoid crashing into the back side of the mirror. In front of it stood a tall naked Hera, full and lush, lifting her round white arms over her head as she pinned up her hair. Behind her, the faint outline of a man moved back and forth in the boudoir door. He might have been dressing, or simply moving about restlessly as the woman preened.

Confusion, shame, and desire overwhelmed Alberich all at once and he clumsily drew back, clattering some stones in the passageway. Immediately the singer put her ear to the mirror and said, "André? Come here - there's a strange sound." Alberich flattened himself to the wall, terrified that he could be seen through what appeared to be a clear sheet of glass, afraid that either of them might accidentally crack the glass and reveal his presence.

A tall, heavy-set man with dark hair came up to the woman from behind. Her skin shone pale against his black evening dress. The man put his arms around her soft middle, cupped her breasts, and buried his face in her neck. Then he laughed and said, "What noise? You're just trying to get me back into bed. I've told you, Roxanne, I have to go."

She turned around to kiss him, murmuring endearments, and Alberich stared until he had to look away, as his burning blood could take no more. When he looked again, the well-dressed man had put a robe of pale cream silk around the woman's shoulders. Then he kissed her a few times more, and shortly left. Alberich squeezed himself against the corridor wall, listening to her movements as she busied herself around the room. It seemed to take hours for her to dress and finally go out.

As he crept back along the passageway, he vowed never to return. No sleep came to him that night. He burned for a woman, any woman, but Alexandrine had gone to Lyon to visit her daughter in the convent there, and so instead he abandoned himself to the impersonal arms of the brothel. Afterwards, he took refuge in the workroom by down by the pumping stations, close to the silent, still water that filled the old Roman bath. The desire of his body was sated, but not that of his heart. He picked up his violin, the old fiddle bought for a few francs in the town-square market in Rennes, and walked out to the bath itself. Around its stone cold circle he walked, improvising haunting tunes far into the night. He stopped only when the cold blue dawn's light came down through the slits high in the stone walls to cast a soft pall on the water's surface.

For a long time after that, Alberich had avoided the secret walkway behind Room Number Seven. The singer Roxanne changed dressing rooms, and soon returned to London.

Now, here he was again in the silent secret corridor behind Room Seven's mirrored wall. On a mad whim, he adjusted a few of the small pulleys and linkage mechanisms, and the mirrored door creaked noisily open, making a fair amount of noise and stirring up quantities of dust.

He hesitated to enter the dressing room at first, and his stomach clenched as he went in. Puffs of dust billowed up each time he took a step, and the room smelled of old face-powder. He kept expecting Roxanne to emerge from behind the boudoir curtain robed only in full flesh. Thrusting aside the curtain, he saw that nothing remained except a pink silk scarf draped over the back of the bright blue settee. The little narrow daybed with its smooth white chenille spread and small rolled pillow looked as undisturbed and chaste as any nun's. Absently he picked up the scarf and draped it across his neck, idly feeling its softness, sniffing it for any trace of scent, but there was none except for the dust of the room.

_The maids should clean this before Mlle. Sigurdsdotter ... before Kristina arrives_, he said to himself with a trace of irritation.

The dim gaslight cast odd enlarged shadows on the rose-papered walls, but Alberich didn't bother to turn it up. He imagined Kristina sitting right over there at the vanity table with her loose gown open to the waist, combing her hair. Her breasts would slide within the silk of her gown as it fell open, then shut, then open again. She would roll her stockings up and fasten them right where the thigh swelled out at its roundest point. If she were vain, she might even undo her robe entirely to admire herself as Roxanne did. It would be so easy to come up here before rehearsals or after performances. He had already seen her beautiful white neck, how the collarbones disappeared entirely under the slope of smooth flesh. There was more beyond that, so much more.

Spurs of desire pushed him onward, but inside he protested. _I can't do this. She's not vain. She doesn't even know how beautiful she is. I want to look at her in the flesh, not from the other side of a piece of glass_.

The mirror mechanism worked from inside the dressing room as well as out, with the switch and lever concealed at floor level. It would be possible to come and go that way, if a person wanted to. Alberich sighed as if weighed down by stones, and after a moment's thought, passed through the mirror into the hallway's long tunnel of night. He stood for a few moments longer, and came to a decision.

An hour later, he came back with some black paint filched from a prop room closet, and covered the passageway's side of the two-way mirror, making it opaque. When she took up residence in the room, he would not look on her in secret. But he couldn't bring himself to brick up the vents which allowed someone to stand in the corridor and hear everything which transpired inside as clearly as if they stood directly in the room itself.

Then Alberich crept into Gicard's office for a second time. The administrator was gone on one of his famously long lunch breaks, no doubt with the managers at their favorite cafe in Montmartre. _Don't push your luck_, the walls seemed to say as he skirted around the wall and scrutinized the dressing room assignment board. Other things than Alberich slunk through the Eclectic Theater, and one of them played in the breeze which whistled through the ventilation shaft and ruffled his hair. _You've got what you wanted here, now go. _

There on the board was her name, and the key was gone, the key to Room Seven. So she had been here, and picked up the key. There was no scent of perfume in the air, but he could feel her all the same. She would walk the same corridors he did. She would tread the boards of the stage, and as long as he had his work here, he would perhaps see her.

A mad idea occurred to him. Gicard was a superstitious man, and it might just work on him. Alberich went back into the niche between the two offices, but lingered. Perhaps he would quietly stay there until Gicard came back.

He didn't wait long. Gicard returned bleary-eyed and groping for the brandy decanter which he kept on the long console table next to the wall. Alberich whispered in a light stage-voice, "Clean up Number Seven."

Gicard started up, fumbling with the glass and spilling a little on his trouser leg. "What? Who's there?"

"Room Seven is down to your usual standards. It could stand for some improvement, especially as it's about to be occupied."

Gicard's plump face turned satisfyingly pale, and he took another drink. To convince him further, Alberich blew into the grill, and a puff of dust and moving air floated out.

"Leave me alone," Gicard whimpered. "I've done what you asked. Don't I keep your box open for you?"

Alberich had no idea what the foolish man was talking about, but he decided to play along anyway. "Thank you. I appreciate that. But just do it. Clean up Number Seven, especially that carpet."

(Continued ...)


	5. Marzipan and Wishes

**Marzipan and Wishes**

Kristina walked around her new dressing room, Number Seven, touching everything as she always did when in a new place. She learned through her fingers as well as her eyes and ears. The vanity table mirror was cracked in one corner and the wood was chipped on the edges. When she opened the wardrobe door it gave a loud creak, and rattled on its loose hinges. Dust covered everything. Apparently the maids didn't get down here too frequently. Worst of all, her hair blew around from an assortment of drafts that seemed to come from nowhere at all, as the cool air played over her and gave her a chill.

_Who did I offend to draw this out-of-the-way hole in the wall? _She glowered at the crinkled wallpaper with its ugly pink-on-red rose pattern. Dust and cheap furnishings made her dressing room looked like a neglected broom closet.

The mirror was splendid, however - full length with a heavy curlicued frame, but thickly covered with dust. Its stained and faintly distorted surface looked old, and Kristina admired herself in the glass for a moment, before getting down to work. She had brought with her their housemaid Amelie, and armed with rags and buckets, the two women began the task of scrubbing the little dressing room and its attached bedroom_. _With her stout, strong arms, Amelie polished the woodwork until it glowed. Kristina smiled at her diligent resolution, and endured her housemaid's chatter. Both of them despaired over the condition of the carpet.

"I wish we could get this rug beaten, Mademoiselle."

"Let's roll it up and put it in the corridor. I think someone will get the point."

Soon enough, one of the porters came by and rapped angrily on the door.

"What's the meaning of this carpet out in the hall here?"

"I want it cleaned," Kristina said. "It's filthy. It needs to be taken out and beaten." _Like you,_ she didn't say.

He looked disgruntled. "I'll need special orders."

"Then I'll make sure I get them. But take that dirty thing out of my sight."

With the rug sitting out of the way in the corridor, they continued to sweep out slut's wool from who knows when. As they moved the armless chaise lounge, Amelie looked disapproving. "What lady would need one of these?"

Laughing, Kristina took one of her scarves and draped it around her head before reclining in imagined luxury on the chaise lounge. "Oh, it's for when I entertain all my lovers_._" Amelie's black eyebrows joined into one long furrow of disapproval across her face. Kristina chuckled, then bounced on the tiny daybed so that the springs creaked. "Obviously the previous occupant did a lot of entertaining. One room wasn't enough for her. See how worn out this bed is?"

Amelie managed to smile and frown at the same time.

"You know if I had wanted a man to take care of me I would have had one by now," Kristina remarked.

"I would hope not!"

"Why is it that my maid is stricter than Mme. Sibelius?"

"Someone needs to be strict with you. Mme. Sibelius is too kind. She gives you too much leeway."

"Oh, haven't you heard of the 'new woman?' The Third Republic has upper schools for girls. It's the law. I would have loved to go to one, instead of the nuns' school. Women go to colleges now, too. A few are doctors and barristers. In America and England there are even more. If a woman is to do all that, she has to be free to go out and move around."

"Free to get her throat cut in the middle of the night, like when you stroll home at all hours."

"I didn't know you worried so. I've been walking to and from rehearsals and performances for months now. It's not like it was in the Swedish countryside when I was a girl. Paris has gaslights everywhere, and even electric ones. It's practically daylight, it's so bright."

"It's not fitting for a young lady to walk around unescorted at all hours of the night and morning."

"No doubt, but how am I to get anything done otherwise? I have to work for a living. We can't pay your wages on Mme. Sibelius's investments forever. Besides, nothing has happened, and Mme. Sibelius doesn't worry."

"Mme. Sibelius thinks too much of the innate goodness of people. I think of young girls kidnapped and taken in a sack to the Ottoman Empire."

"You read too many of those serialized magazine novels." Amelie sighed, as she'd heard it all before. "They have improbable situations," Kristina went on in a lecturing tone. "The villains are overexaggerated monsters, and the heroes are too perfect with their slicked-back hair and their titles, and the heroines … please. Fainting little fools. If anyone came after me, I'd kick the stuffing out of them. Did I tell you that Mirella, the prima ballerina here, once stuck a man on the omnibus with her stiletto? It looks just like an awl that you use to punch holes in leather. She says he squealed like a piglet getting castrated. Her close friend, the Comte de Coucy, gave it to her. Perhaps I should get one of those, too. Don't look like that; I meant a stiletto, not a special friend."

Amelie gave a gratifying expression of exasperated shock. "And how would she know what a piglet sounds like? Or you, for that matter?'

"Don't forget, I grew up on a farm. I used to watch Pappa castrate the pigs."

Amelie threw up her hands. "At least it's not my worry. Look what the theater has done to you. It's wiped away every trace of refinement."

"I appreciate your many attempts to reform me. Since you did the work the staff should have done, let me pay you for helping me today." Kristina gave her a brief hug and dug around in her beaded purse. "Don't worry about me. I'm not one of those fainting little silk handkerchiefs from the magazine stories. Now take all these rags and buckets home, and I'll be along after I unpack and go visit the managers about that rug."

But she never made it that day to complain about the rug, for as Kristina ascended the stairs to the main level, she was swept up by a bevy of "ballet rats" twittering and chattering in their tulle and stockings. "We saw him!" they all cried together. "The ghost! Bold as brass, outside the manager's office! We ran up to him and then he disappeared, right into the wall." As they moved downstairs, they swept Kristina along in their flood of interrupting comments.

"What do you think he wanted? Did you see his face? I saw his eyes glow red. No, not red, yellow! Oh, it was horrible! He was all in black, except for his dead white face! No, you're wrong, he had a mask on. That wasn't a mask, it was his face. What do you know? I've been here a year longer than you, and I've seen him several times, and it was a mask, I tell you, a white mask," and so on they went.

Back where she'd started, trapped in the flood, Kristina said, "Look, girls, I'm new here. Tell me what you saw, but one at a time. Look, if you quiet down, I have something for you. Come into my dressing room."

They all shut up immediately. Then one brave little one about twelve years old ventured, "Come into your dressing room?"

"Who are you?" a tall, dark girl asked. "I've seen you this past week, but I don't know your name."

"I'm Mademoiselle Sigurdsdotter."

"That's a funny name!" one remarked.

"You would invite us into your dressing room?" said another. "I didn't think the singers liked us. They call us 'little rats.' "

"Besides," said a bony scarecrow all elbows and knees, "isn't your dressing room the one at the end of the hall? I hear it's haunted."

"I have a box of marzipan," Kristina said in a sweet tone, "and I don't dare eat it all myself, or I'll never fit into any of the costumes. So why don't you come and all have a piece?"

The bevy of girls were obviously not so frightened of the haunted dressing room to pass up some marzipan. Soon the little room was filled with white tulle and silk stockings, as little girlish limbs draped themselves all over the furniture. There was enough marzipan for each to have one piece, and two for Kristina.

"So tell me about this ghost," Kristina said when all were settled and done with trading their pieces. One had a strawberry, another a raspberry, another a peach, but each wanted what the other one had.

"He has been here ever since the Opera opened," the little scarecrow ventured.

"The managers give him whatever he asks," said another.

"What exactly does he do?" Kristina asked. "Does he come up on you in your rehearsals and say, 'Boo?'" _These silly little girls are so hysterical_.

They grew silent, their faces white. "We never thought of that," said the bold little scarecrow. "What if he did?" The youngest, a girl of nine or so, started to sniffle.

"Come here," Kristina said to the sniffling one, and put her arm around her. "Here, have my piece of marzipan. I don't need more than one. Of course the ghost wouldn't come up on you during rehearsal. The ballet master - what's his name? Monsieur Justin? The ballet master would beat him with his stick, wouldn't he?"

The little girl managed a faint smile. "He would! Oh, Mademoiselle, you should hear his voice when he is in a temper!"

"I can imagine. I hear him enough during my rehearsals. Would you like to hear a story from when I was a little girl in Sweden?"

They clapped and proclaimed "Yes, yes!"

"As you know, I grew up near Uppsala, a small city just a bit north of the great city of Stockholm. We lived on a little farm that had been in my Pappa's family for generations. Near our farm was the great and ancient place called Gamla Uppsala, or 'Ancient Uppsala.' Pappa used to take me there sometimes. We would visit the little church for a few prayers, and then spend the afternoon wandering the hills. It is where the ancient kings of Sweden held court on the high hills.

"On top of the highest hill there was a great wooden temple, and long ago, before the priests came to Sweden, once a year the pagans would take their captives and offer sacrifices to the ancient Scandinavian gods; to Odin and Thor and Frey. Pappa told me that in the moonlight on St. John's Eve these ancient kings would rise again and walk the hills of Gamla Uppsala, and that sometimes in the night you could see their armies ride through the countryside, hear their ghost horses, and see the bloody heads they stuck on the end of their pikes, the heads of their vanquished and sacrificed enemies."

"Oh," gasped a few of the girls. "That's awful."

"They were heathens then," Kristina said.

"That explains it!"

"Still, how terrible."

"Shhh. Once I managed to sneak out at night on St. John's Eve, and off I headed for the hills. I wanted the horsemen to lift me up on one of their great, wild horses, and carry me off, so I could be one of the old warrior women of ancient Scandinavia. But the baker's wife, who was up before everyone else because she was baking, found me on the path in front of her shop and hauled me back home by the ear. She offered to beat me for running away, if Pappa would give her leave."

"Did he?" asked the tallest and oldest girl of about twelve, who glowered with dark impertinence.

"No, of course not," Kristina answered with a bit of irritation. "Pappa never beat me; he couldn't bring himself to, ever."

"Sweden sounds wonderful," one chimed in. "Why did you leave?"

"My Pappa played the violin as well as farmed. One bad year came, and then another, and before you knew it, we were boarding with a music professor in Uppsala. His name was Dr. Sibelius. When he came to France to teach at the Descartes Academy, we came with him.

"What did your Papa do?" "I thought you said you lived on a farm." "You weren't listening, silly goose, she said she lived on a giant hill with the heathens."

"Quiet!" Kristina said, trying hard not to laugh, and went on.

"My Pappa helped the professor with his compositions, when he could. He played the violin beautifully, before he grew ill. When he was too weak to pick up the bow, he preferred to encourage me instead. So here I am," she finished with false, light brightness. Inside, though, the anger which welled up inside was anything but light. She didn't know with whom she was more angry - herself for telling this sanitized little fable, or the innocent girls for asking. Anything to get off this subject. Kristina swallowed hard, then asked, "Why don't you go around and tell me all your names?" They chirped and warbled, and Kristina forgot their names as soon as she heard them, all but for one girl.

"I'm Lisette Avenelle. I've just turned twelve. They just made me head girl of this new class, and I dance with the troupe now. I want to lead someday. Mama says I can do it, if I just get the chance." She looked unsure, as if she'd gone too far.

"And who is your mother?" For some of the girls of the ballet school lived with their own families, but to others the ballet master assigned worthy ladies for them to watch over them.

"My mother cleans the boxes on the second tier. She's especially favored by the ghost who lives up there."

When a cow wanders across the road, it stops the carriage, or the carriage collides with it. Something collided inside Kristina. She knew that every theater had its own ghost, but this one had a box? What would a ghost need with a box, when he could go everywhere at will?

Taking advantage of Kristina's silence, Lisette asked, "Do you live with your parents?"

"I live with the professor's widow, Mme. Sibelius. My own mother passed on just before we came to Paris, and my Pappa is gone, too. Mme. Sibelius is like a mother to me. But do go on."

"My mother met him when the Opera first opened," Lisette said with obvious pride in her voice. "She told me that one day she was cleaning Box 17, and found a five-franc piece. She was about to go for the theater police, for she didn't want to pick it up and be accused of stealing. You see, any items left in the box, like opera glasses, or gloves have to be fetched by our own police, and the names and descriptions of the things written down in a book. But just as she was about to leave the box, she heard a violin playing."

"It's a theater, so why shouldn't she hear a violin?"

Lisette shrugged her shoulders as if to say, Don't interrupt. "From inside the walls? He stopped playing and spoke to her kindly, explaining that he'd made an arrangement with the managers, and this was to be his box now. If she took care of it properly for him, he said, he would tip her well."

"Amazing," Kristina said. "A ghost that uses money. A ghost that sings. Although you and your mother should be careful of ghostly violinists. They might lead you to start dancing, and then not let you stop."

A few of the bigger girls yawned, having heard Lisette's story before, but the younger ones sat enraptured. "From then on," Lisette said, "for every performance, Box 17 is left empty for the ghost."

"And we see him, too!" a pert blonde beauty piped up. "I've seen him in the flies above the stage. He looks like a crow in his long black cloak. Sometimes I go looking for him. I've never seen him yet, but I want to."

"Oooh, no you don't," said a few others. Then her seat companion said, "Oh, maybe he'll carry you off and marry you," which caused the whole company to collapse in a fit of giggles.

"I've heard him whisper in the hallways," said another one. "It sounds like singing and breathing at the same time."

"Mama says his fiddle sounds like a man sobbing," Lisette said.

"But what exactly does this ghost do?" Kristina asked, knowing that girls invent stories to amuse themselves during long lessons or on cold winter nights. "Does he throw things like a poltergeist, or make drafts of cold air, or walk around without his head?"

They all started talking again at once. "Down in the cellars there's a head of fire! Maybe that's him! Maybe he takes his head off and sets it aflame, to keep everyone out of the cellars!"

"Quiet!" Kristina called out.

Then Lisette spoke up again. "Sometimes the stage hands blame the ghost if something breaks, or if someone gets hit by a sandbag, or if a set piece falls. But my mother says that in the theater there are many things to break, many ways to make mistakes, and especially many ways to get hurt. She thinks the ghost is gentle and kind, and loves only music, which is why he lives here and haunts the Opera."

"Well, that makes sense. Theater ghosts aren't supposed to harm anyone, at least if you don't bother them. There is a story about the ghost who lives in the Royal Opera House in London. If you are kind to him, he will move you about on stage if you forget where you're supposed to be, and his hands are supposed to be very gentle."

"He puts his hands on people?" Lisette asked with indrawn breath.

"That's what they say. He touches his favorites ever so lightly to lead them where they're supposed to go. They aren't afraid of him at all, although one opening night, one actor offended him by bringing real whiskey on the stage in a glass instead of tea, and the ghost made him trip during the middle of the love scene."

"Maybe he just tripped on his own," a little brunette with a heart for a face said.

"He said it felt like tripping over a piece of furniture, but there was nothing there," Kristina said, trying hard not to laugh outright.

They sat quietly for a moment. "I've never heard of our ghost moving people around on stage," Lisette said.

"That's right, because La Renata would crush him if he tried to move her," the little brunette said, and a few of them shrieked with laughter.

"What does your mother say he looks like?" Kristina asked Lisette. "An old crow with yellow skin?"

Lisette screwed her face up a little, as if thinking. "She's never said what he looks like."

"But you all seem to know."

"That's because we've seen him!" "No, you haven't, you said you didn't." "Are you saying I lie?" "I don't believe you!" "Well, I have seen him, and his eyes were red like burning coals!"

"All right!" Kristina called out, and they grew quiet. "This is what I think. I don't know about France, but in Sweden, each place has a special spirit who watches over it, especially the farms. He's called the _tomte_. The _tomten_ are the original owners of the farm, who lived there long before man even came to the land, and they will be there long after the last family departs. If there were no _tomten_, the milk wouldn't turn to butter; the hens wouldn't lay; the cows wouldn't calve. I remember crying bitterly when Pappa sold the farm, to move us to Uppsala. How could you sell the farm, I shouted. What will become of the_ tomte_? He will miss us. Who will put out bread or porridge, or an egg for him in the morning? What if the next people forget to put butter and sugar on his porridge, the way he likes it?"

One little girl said, "Oh, that would be so sad for the poor little fellow."

One girl said solemnly, "That's not just Sweden, Mam'selle. Before we came here, we lived in the country, a whole twenty miles away from Paris, and every evening Mama would leave out a little milk with a pat of butter for the fairies."

"They're not real, stupid," the girl sitting next to her said, giving her a little pinch on the arm. From the gasps and twitters from everyone else, it was clear most of them disagreed.

"Are you that sure?" Kristina said with a smile in her voice. "Pappa loved to tell stories about the _tomten_, but I never knew what Pappa actually believed, or what he simply made up for my amusement. But I really saw our _tomte_, just once. I remember going out to the stable one evening - it was very late at night in the summer, although the sky was was still blue with twilight - to visit our draft horse in her stall. Her name was Parla. There, in the stall, muttering softly to Parla and stroking her long braided mane, was the _tomte_, a little man all in grey, with a red peaked cap and a long, impossibly pointed nose. He looked at me for a minute, then walked under Parla and disappeared. He didn't frighten me at all; it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be there, but I thought it best if on the next morning I left him some cream in a bowl, before I put it on my porridge.

"I knew that sometimes when a family moved, the _tomte_ would move with them, but only to another farm. No one ever heard of the _tomte_ moving to a city like Uppsala. That's why I cried so hard. It was only later, when I went to school, that I found that other children didn't see _tomten_, or know stories of ghosts and giants, and didn't believe in them. So I slowly put all those stories out of my mind, and tried to learn about geography and the kings of Sweden, and later in Paris the kings and republics of France. Is it possible," Kristina mused, "that your ghost is the _tomten_ of this place?"

They sat quietly, their little faces screwed up with curiosity. They had never thought of that before.

All at once, Kristina's head ached with weariness, and her arms throbbed from the day's scrubbing. The girls could probably play at this game for another hour, but she was weary, and Amelie expected her home shortly. So she rose up and said, "I am glad you all visited me in my new dressing room. You are the first visitors I have had, and I have found your company most interesting and charming. But now I have to shoo you out now, to go to my own home now, and have my tea."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you for the candy," they cried, and off they went in a flutter of skirts and chirps and chatter.

* * * * * * * * * *

As Kristina walked home, the soft evening light seemed charged with a strange excitement. Little shadows played around the bushes and in the corners of doorways, as if each building had a beckoning or mocking spirit whose eyes followed me. A ghost that paid tips? That negotiated deals with theater managers? A very strange ghost indeed. She kept looking behind her in the darkening light. A few men called out to her and made joking remarks, but if a ghost followed that night, he was very stealthy.

When she arrived at the apartment just off Rue Philippe de Lyon, the fire was lit, the tea service was laid out, and Anneke Sibelius was just about to pour.

"So how went things today, Kristina?"

Kristina buttered a biscuit. "I'm sure Amelie told you what a mess was left in my dressing room. After we cleaned it up I sent her home, and then I met a little flock of ballet girls on the stairwell. You know that old box of marzipan I'd had for a week? I passed it out to them, and they didn't know the difference, even though the pieces had gotten rather stale. Maybe the girls thought they were supposed to be hard candies."

"When do rehearsals start?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. It's _Anna Boleyn, _only done as a comedy. I'm the Queen's music tutor, Smeton."

"It's a strange thing, to cast girls in men's parts."

"It's stranger still to have Queen Anna run away with her musician and save both her neck and his. Anyway, it's not as if we wear false beards or anything. We still look like girls."

"And sound like them, too." Anneke spilled a drop of tea and wiped it up with great care. The tea service had been a wedding gift from her husband's parents.

"They like my voice for those roles - they say it is rich like a man's. I have a really wide range, too, so I can make those lower mezzo parts sound good, but I can still do a light and high soprano. The music director who heard my audition said they picked me, because I have that especially wide range, and an unusual timbre for a woman."

"I always thought your voice was extraordinary. By the way, I sent Amelie home because her mother is sick again."

"That's alright, Anneke - I can get the tea things. We depend on servants too much anyway. Also, I had the most curious chat with the ballet girls. The singers aren't kind to them. They and the older ballerinas call them "little rats" and make fun of them. The girls tell this tale of a ghost in the Opera, who wears a long black cloak and black hat; who wanders around the building and can go through walls."

Anneke was silent.

"They go look for him when they have nothing better to do. When I mentioned that we had a _tomte_ on our farm, they looked at me as if I had two heads. Not only that, their ghost leaves tips for the concierge. They obviously didn't believe in our _tomte_, but why would they believe in a ghost who leaves tips?"

That strange choking sound was Anneke trying and failing to suppress a laugh. "These Parisians. I will never understand them, not as long as I live. They are always lighting candles and having processions, but they are entirely practical and worldly, calculating every last sou. They want the strange and the exotic, but an ordinary _tomte _who helps the butter churn - for him they have no use."

"It just flew out of my mouth that their ghost could simply be the _tomte_ of the theater. Can such a spirit live in a building, Anneke? When I was little, I was convinced that our _tomte_ couldn't even follow us to Uppsala, much less take up residence in the grandeur of Paris." She laughed a little sarcastically. "No, don't get up, I'll clear all this away."

"Child, I'll tell you again, read Swedenborg. It's all in Swedenborg."

Kristina put on her apron and gave an exasperated sigh. "I've tried to read Swedenborg. It's no use. The Latin makes my head ache. The most I got out of it was that Swedenborg saw spirits everywhere. He thought that if you thought you saw a spirit, you probably did."

"Close enough. But sometimes the simplest explanation is the best. Maybe the simplest thought here is that your little ballerinas are bored, and looking for some fun. I think it's something you missed as a girl yourself. We're not of the same flesh and blood, you and I, but you are a lot like I was as a child. I didn't have a little pack of girls to run and share jokes with. Our fishing village outside of Oslo was isolated and I had only older brothers, some of whom were already men when I was born. My own mother was eaten up by work early, and when I proved to be a self-reliant child, she was nothing but relieved. So when we enrolled you in school both in Uppsala and here, I hoped you would find some friends, a 'little flock,' as you put it, but you were quiet and kept to yourself."

"I was sad," Kristina answered. "I missed my own mother - no don't look like that, you know you take care of me like a mother now and how much I love you. But even though my own mother was so often sick, and so often lost and vacant even when she wasn't in bed, I still missed her. What was worse was that Pappa would never talk of her, or of our days on the farm. It was as if the farm was a dream that he wanted to forget. But I couldn't forget it. The longer we were away from it, the more I thought of it, and the more real it became to me.

"Besides, the girls at school made fun of me for having come from the country. My accent was bad, my clothes were all wrong, I braided my hair instead of wearing it up. Nothing I did was right. So when the girls at school wanted to chatter about ribbons, or name cards, or exchange autograph pages, I would instead wander off remembering how I would run beside Pappa as he plowed . Behind him the sower would sing a song for Freya as he threw the seed out, even though Pappa told me that the words were changed to not offend the Church, just as the Church built chapels on the hills of the old Viking lords."

"You did have one friend, as I recall, a boy, in Ploumanac'h."

"Oh, yes, Louvel. Not much to tell there. We went exploring together one summer, when he could get away from his governess. Pappa gave him lessons, but he wasn't very good. He liked the music, though. Pappa taught him 'The Cider Song' and as I remember, his governess told him it was a wicked song for a child to sing."

"Yes, I remember your father saying, 'How did she know it was about hard cider, anyway?' What happened to that boy?"

"Anneke, I think he just grew up. He's in Paris for 'the season,' it turns out. I saw his name in the gossip column."

"Your father seemed to think you cared for him a great deal. How old was he, thirteen or so?"

"I was thirteen, and he was fifteen. He looked younger than he was. We seemed to see everything with the same eyes. However, I think in some ways he was more entranced by Pappa than by me. He loved to listen to Pappa spin his yarns. He was entranced with the mysterious and the fabulous, but when I quite calmly mentioned to him that I had actually seen one of the sea-people on the shore near Ploumanac'h, he didn't believe me. Oddly, he wanted to go with me to look for the 'other folk,' even though I tried to explain to him that you couldn't just go 'look' for them. They either came to you or they didn't. It was a game to him, so he got angry because while he was pretending, I wouldn't. He wanted it to be true, but at the same time he wanted it to be something weird, instead of something …"

"Something natural," Anneke interrupted.

"That's a good way to put it. But it was the same as with the ballet girls today. Oh, it's all ancient history now anyway. Show me your needlework. I have been busy and haven't looked at it in a few days."

Anneke had taken a piece of linen and was working it in the old Scandinavian style, with stick figures of people and animals, and bright reds, browns, and blues. Men were chasing a stag with spears, but he looked to be getting away.

"I like that," Kristina said. "I'm putting my wager on the stag."

That night she rolled around in bed while the fattening moon moved across the window, and blamed Anneke for bringing up the topic of Louvel de Coucy, who just happened to bear the title of Vicomte.

It was hard for Kristina not to think of Louvel without a certain measure of bitterness, despite that one summer when the two of them climbed over the red rocks on the shoreline of Ploumanac'h and threw stones into the Bay of Brittany. One day near summer's end, Louvel came to the little whitewashed cottage to fetch her, and they went out to the little pond in the clearing behind the house, and ate the meat pies he'd snatched from the kitchen of the summer house where his family stayed.

Together they wandered around all that afternoon trying to spy the fairies, although by then he had begun to disbelieve. When the sun crept toward the horizon, they lingered in a clearing, reluctant to go.

The darkening air reminded Kristina that Pappa would be waiting for her. She told Louvel she had to depart, but he kept delaying, and before she knew it, he had planted a small, firm, dry kiss on her closed and astonished mouth. Bewildered, she ran away and he gave chase. When he caught her squirming waist, he laughed and wrapped his arms tighter, calling her his little running deer.

As they walked back to the Sibelius's cottage, Kristina spied a herd of deer in a clearing on the nearby hillside. Hushed and entirely still, the two were treated to a great rarity. The stag of the herd was unnaturally pale, not white, but a creamy ivory. Louvel said that he couldn't believe some huntsman hadn't picked him off long ago. Several does followed him, and two small fawns, all of the normal brown or stippled pattern.

Kristina clutched Louvel's arm and whispered to him that seeing a white stag was good luck, and that he would grant them wishes. So they screwed up their faces and made one each. Kristina wished that she could see one of the fay, a fairy man - more than that, she wanted a fay man to love her and take her away to his shadowy country. Some girls would have asked for a prince, or a soldier, but she asked the white stag to send one of the fay people to her.

Louvel was wishing too, concentrating hard, and when he leaned over a bit too abruptly, the stag raised his head and ran swiftly out of the clearing into the trees, the does and fawns following. As they watched them go, Kristina's heart started pounding like their hooves.

Louvel playfully asked her what she'd wished for. She wouldn't tell him, saying that wishes told wouldn't come true, and that made him a little angry, so she teased him mercilessly to reveal his own wish, until he confessed that he had always wanted to go to the cannibal islands in the Pacific. His older brother Etienne had told him that since Napoleon, the French were the world's greatest explorers. "We go about it scientifically! Anyway, there are still islands which the English haven't claimed yet." Then, determined, he asked her again what she had wished for.

Kristina's fancy seemed light and foolish next to his great ambition, but more than that, something bound her tongue. No matter how he entreated and begged, she would not or could not tell. Louvel grew sullen and called her a cheating and unfair girl, and that she'd ruined his wish while keeping her own.

To distract him, she came closer to him and asked for a kiss good-bye, and so he planted a quick one on her mouth, waved, and was gone in a flash up the purple dark of the road, running like a deer himself.

As she watched him disappear swiftly into the evening, a horrible sense descended. What if Louvel's heart's wish was truly spoiled by her curiosity?

The next afternoon Kristina forgot about her reminiscences of Louvel entirely, for when she entered Room Seven, there on the floor was the carpet, well-beaten, cleaned, and smelling as fresh as new. The day before, it had looked like a grayish-red mess, but now its interleaved Persian rose patterns shone through all slate-gray and red, without a speck of dust.

Climbing the stairs to the rehearsal hall, she met the same porter she'd seen the day before. "Thank you for cleaning my rug, and laying it out so well in my dressing room," she called out to him.

He gave her a look of pure alarm and hurried away.

Perplexed, Kristina stopped by the business manager's office and stuck her head in the door.

M. Gicard in his snug, finely tailored waistcoat sat behind his desk, picking his teeth and sipping from a cut-glass brandy snifter. Piles of correspondence decorated the desk, but his half-closed eyes showed that he had no interest in any of it. The door was open, and when Kristina knocked on the doorframe, Gicard's eyes flew open in surprise. "Mlle. Sigurdsdotter," he stuttered, "If it's about that rug … "

"It is, M. Gicard, and I want to thank you for your prompt attention to it."

He stared at her, his mouth open. He made a spastic motion and his hand knocked over a stack of papers. _He's alarmed, really alarmed. Why?_

"It was nothing, Mademoiselle, really. You must leave now, as I'm terribly busy. So if you will excuse me …"

Kristina shook her head at his strange behavior as she headed towards the rehearsal hall.

(Continued ...)


	6. Songs in the Dark

**Songs in the Dark**

Kristina enjoyed her newly-cleaned carpet, but not the strange and inquiring looks sent her way over the next few weeks. _Maybe it's my hair,_ she thought. _The girls at school teased me about it, but now it's imitated everywhere. _ Every other woman in Paris, it seems, had her hair dyed a blatant, artificial yellow.

She sang the page boy Smeton indifferently over those nights, trying to ignore the sarcastic glances of La Renata's Queen Anna Boleyn. Anna was supposed to look with love upon Smeton, but Renata spent more time looking at the audience and enjoying her mutual love affair with them, than paying any attention to the girl in boy's tights before her. As Kristina sat before the Queen and strummed on the harp, Renata's broad face smiled for the audience, but her eyes directed icicles at the musician who loved her. Then, worst of all, Renata had snapped at her during intermission that if she sang so badly with her again, she'd boot her off the stage.

_At least Renata's claque didn't boo when I opened my mouth. _ The previous night a shaky understudy had sung Jane Seymour's role, and instead of applause, she was met by hisses which could be heard even up in the "heavens," the highest seats where the "gods" sat.

_Is this really what I wanted to do?_ Kristina asked herself more than once as she walked home in the dark, dodging lecherous men and drunks, trying to look as respectable as possible when encountering the occasional policeman.

She flung herself into the small narrow apartment as if it were a refuge. Sitting at the kitchen table, Kristina put her head in her hands and said to Anneke, "I don't know how I can keep on with this. The lead singer hates me because she thinks I make her look bad. And I'm just so tired all the time."

"Kristina, you do look awful. Your eyes are black, your skin is like parchment, and I never hear you sing anymore at home," Anneke said.

"It's because it's all I do, every day and many nights of the week. If you haven't worked in this theater, you have no idea what happens if you make one tiny mistake. Every singer who gets a lead role fancies herself a 'diva,' and every leading man or woman has his group that shows up, especially on Fridays. They have no restraint if they think you do a bad job. I have heard them make animal noises, barks, croaks, if they don't like you."

"Has anyone done that when you've sang?" Anneke asked in horror.

"No, they don't do it while you're singing, but if they don't like your delivery, they make the most dreadful noises afterwards. It takes a superhuman will to open your mouth in front of them. It's why I go in early, before rehearsals, and practice in my dressing room or on the stage itself. If I make a mistake during rehearsal, the director is most sarcastic, and the other singers laugh, saying, Oh, Sigurdsdotter, where did she get her training? Herding sheep? In a cow barn? and so on."

Anneke's lips compressed themselves into a thin line.

"Look, I'm not complaining. I know that much of it is because I am new. It's like those American wild Indians who make their captives run a gauntlet, whipping them as they go. The ones who don't fall get into the tribe. That's exactly what's going on here. They have their tribe, and I'm on the outside of it. I won't be new forever. Besides, it could be worse. I hear in La Scala they actually throw tomatoes at the stage if they don't like you."

Anneke just shook her head. "Perhaps Renata is only so dreadful if she senses you flagging in your enthusiasm."

"Yes, like a wolf who smells blood," Kristina answered with a sour face.

_Anna Boleyn _came to an end, and Kristina had more time on her hands. Several times Monsieur de Carnac hinted, and then told her straight out, that it was time for her to find a teacher. However, she made no effort. Instead, as the days grew shorter and colder, she took advantage of the waning autumn days. She walked through Paris occasionally with Anneke, but mostly alone. When she got cold, she took steaming Turkish coffee in cafes that were little more than holes in the wall, or browsed in the booksellers and curio shops which lined the narrow streets.

_I need a teacher. But who? When I sing, I don't like how I sound. It reminds me of a wind-up doll, or a toy. _ She met with an Italian master who praised her voice and wanted her to sing a piece he had written for his former mistress. She must not have sounded enough like her, or perhaps reminded him of her too well, because he ended the lesson abruptly, and didn't even take her money.

Then there was the elderly French dandy who wore a blue velvet suit and spent the whole lesson combing his long white hair. He told her that countertenors were his specialty, that he had been "born in the wrong century" and "really was meant to live in the Baroque." He said he would take her because with training she had the potential to "approach in the faintest way the most perfect voice ever created," the castrato. He said it in such a condescending tone that when he remarked, "Keep in mind that normally I wouldn't take on a woman," she could not bear one more minute in his gloomy studio with its dark purple drapes and the deep brown walnut paneling. His shocked eyes followed her out the door as she set the money down just a little too hard on his desk.

She couldn't bear to interview any more. Then the days grew more beautiful as the crisp northern air advanced southward over Paris, and on one particularly cold and tawny morning, Kristina left earlier than usual for the theater. That night there was to be a a collection of various arias from different ages and styles. She wanted to find the perfect dress in the wardrobe room, so up she rose as early as the fruit and vegetable sellers.

The main costume room was long and well-lit, and hundreds of frocks, coats, jumpers, suits of mail, jesters' motley and other costumes all neatly hung in rows. For some reason blue dresses were harder to find than others, but Kristina finally found a light blue gown with puffed sleeves. She pulled it off the rack and held it in front of her in the triple mirror, where three young women, all looking exactly like her, promptly appeared.

_Not bad. But this blue's wrong; it makes my skin look yellowish. And this chignon, it's all out of its pins again and threatens to collapse over my shoulders. _ She put the dress aside and let her hair down, thinking to re-twist it. The red-gold mass had a mind of its own and refused to be wrestled back into its pins. Three women all with the same strong, broad face and wide brown eyes stared back at her. Their mouths were all twisted around the hairpins. _Not a pretty face, if you like those pointed-chin little angels, but good enough_.

Something stirred behind her and she whirled around. A piece of paper on the cluttered desk had moved. That had to be it, perhaps. Or else the theater ghost liked to watch women trying on dresses. That thought made the hair on her neck and arms begin to creep, so she went around the dressing room three times clockwise and spit, before searching the racks again.

Then, as if it had leapt into her hand of its own accord, she found the dress, an empire-waisted velvet in dark blue. She couldn't imagine how it got in there, unless it had been made for something by Moliere, or perhaps a mythological light opera. Half afraid the wardrobe mistress would take it from her if she caught her with it, Kristina took the dress back to Number Seven and tried it on there. Fortunately, it laced on the sides and not in the back, so she could do it without help. But it didn't quite fit. She pulled and picked at the fabric in disappointment, because the dress was too tight in the bosom and too loose the waist.

She would have to confront the wardrobe mistress anyway, it seemed. But rather than chase down that prickly woman with her box of pins, Kristina instead decided to make the alterations herself. _She probably won't be in until noon, anyway. I've got some blue thread. I can make the needed fixes._

As she let out a seam here, took in a tuck there, she sang an old folksong:

_So the little brown mouse_

_Who lived in the wall_

_Came out for a wife_

_In the start of the fall _

_They both danced a jig_

_Till the cat came to call_

_Then both of those mice_

_Ran back in the wall_

When she came to the end she started again, and made up several verses of her own, tapping her foot to the rollicking fiddle tune that accompanied it. The bluish light of the gas jet reflected on the wallpaper, and its cold cast called up winter evenings in the snug Sibelius apartment in Uppsala, when Pappa used to fiddle, Kristina would sing along, Anneke sewed, and the scritch-scratch of Dr. Sibelius's pen could be heard in the interludes as he prepared his notes for the next day's class.

That was a good memory, and so she swayed along to the fiddle's rhythm, when suddenly her stomach went cold. She startled so badly that the sharp needle went right into her finger, and she only rescued the dress from a bloodstain by jamming the sore finger into her astonished mouth.

A fiddle? Someone was playing a fiddle to her tune? She was so used to hearing Pappa play it that the sound seemed entirely natural, except for one thing. She was alone in her room, singing an old song probably known to about five non-Swedes in all of Paris, and accompanied by an invisible fiddle which stopped dead when she did.

Still sucking her sore finger, Kristina went out into the corridor. To the right of the dressing room there was a small cul-de-sac and wall, and all around were locked closets. The three or four other dressing rooms further down the corridor seemed unoccupied. There could be other rooms on the other side, perhaps, adjacent to her wall. A violinist might have found an unoccupied room for practice. She stole down the corridor, turned left, and entered the area where the ballerinas had their dressing rooms.

_Silly girl_, Kristina said to herself. _Amelie's stories are getting to you. There are hundreds of musicians around here, and you just heard one. Some musician probably spent the night with a ballerina, and burst into a little morning song. But to the tune of "The Little Brown Mouse?" _

The dim corridor held no answers, and she didn't feel like finishing her work in the suddenly all-too-silent room, so she took the half-finished dress back to the costume shop.

"Give it to me," the wardrobe mistress said as she yanked the dress out of Kristina's hands. "You girls need to stick to the stage and leave off the sewing."

Kristina waited until the dress was done, leafing through feather boas, shawls, and gowns as she waited. The seamstress looked up every so often to glare at Kristina, but it didn't take long for her skillful fingers to finish the seams. She opened her mouth to argue when Kristina picked up to the costume to take it back to Number Seven, but at that instant a group of women from the chorus came in, demanding to know where their robes were for the Capulet's party. Kristina took advantage of the confusion to beat a quick retreat, clutching the dress possessively as she headed out. It was rare to find a dress which fit so well, and she didn't want anyone else to put her hand on it.

Now that it was early afternoon, Kristina had mostly forgotten her astonishment at that morning's eerie song. Back at Number Seven, a bevy of ballerinas clustered outside, so she announced, "You must have come for some more sweets, but I'm sorry, I didn't expect you, so I have none," and they answered, "No, no, Mlle. Sigurdsdotter, we came for a story."

"A story I can manage with no difficulty. Come in," and in swept the bevy of girls between nine and twelve. "Here, let me put up this dress."

"Oh, is that your costume for tonight? Can we see it?" They oohed, and one after another said, "You will look like a princess in that. Do you have a beau? Let me feel it … what wonderful velvet …"

"Perhaps someone someday will ask me to supper after a performance," Kristina said playfully. "I'll have to find something especially beautiful to wear then."

"You must have a beau, Mademoiselle," one said. "You're so pretty."

Suddenly a whoosh swept through the room, as if a vent had opened up, and a faint rush of air ruffled the hairs on the back of Kristina's neck. Atop the new rush of air floated a sigh. "Did you hear that?" she asked, looking around.

The girls all got very quiet. A little blonde girl who hadn't visited before said softly, "Mademoiselle, this dressing room is supposed to be haunted, you know."

An echo of the ghostly violin came back to her and she trembled, not with fear this time, but excitement. _Amelie might make me nervous about burly white-slave traders, but ghosts don't scare me. _ As a child, the ghosts of the Viking kings were as real to her as her own family. That there was a ghost in this theater surprised her not at all, but it did make her hair creep to think that he might be in this very room. She cast around in her thoughts for a story, as a woman might look for just the right kind of wool in the sewing basket. Yes, that one. That would be perfect. "Now for your story," Kristina said. "I will tell you about the Angel of Music. When I was little, my Papa would ask me, 'What do you want to hear for your bedtime story, Kristina?' and I would say, 'Oh, Pappa, tell me of the Angel of Music.'"

"Your name's not Kristina," a little pert thing piped up. "It's Christine."

"Well, in Sweden, that would be pronounced Kristina, and that's what he called me. We make our names differently in Sweden than here in Paris. Girls and boys in the family often don't have the same last name. If the father's name is Carl, then his son will be called Carlsson, and his daughter will be called Carlsdotter."

"What?" they exclaimed. "That's silly. How would you know whose papa someone belonged to?"

"You and your father would have different names," one interrupted.

"They'd think your mama and papa weren't married," said another darkly.

"How would you know who your family was?" the pert girl asked.

"Well, you're right, you know. In Sweden, you can't assume that two men named Ericsson are relatives. All it means is that their fathers had the same first name, and Eric in Sweden is a very common name. Anyway, my Papa's name was Sigurd Svensson, because his father's first name was Sven. So that's how my name became Kristina Sigurdsdotter."

"I like Christine better," one girl said.

"That's too confusing."

"Sigurdsdotter is too much of a mouthful," said another.

"Does anyone know who Sigurd was?" Kristina asked? "No? Well, that's a story for another day. My Pappa's head was filled with wonderful stories. Some were from the Bible; some were from the old myths, and some he made up all on his own. But this was one of my favorites, because it had to do with the beginning of the world. Pappa told me that when God made the world, he made it out of a single note, sung with His own mighty voice. Out of that note all the stuff of the world was made, but it had no form."

"I know that," said a little minx. "Father told us that in catechism class."

"You all must stop interrupting, or I'll forget where I am, and there will be no story. So when God made all the stuff of the world, it was all mixed together. Just imagine a big bowl filled with lentils, peas, and pulses. Then throw in some rice for good measure, and think of how hard it would be to separate all those little grains into their own pile. So it was at the beginning of everything. Since it was a very big job to separate all that mess into the sun and moon, into lakes and mountains and valleys, into plants and animals, God made angels to be his helpers. And one of his angels had a very special job."

"You know how if you have some beads lying on a table, ready to go onto the string or sew onto a dress, and someone slams something down on the table very hard? The beads jump, don't they? Well, that was how God was going to get all those pieces of the world to sort themselves out, but he wasn't going to do it just with a bump or a blow. Instead, he was going to use music, and not just one note, but many, more than we could count. And this one angel's job was to figure out the notes which all the angels would have to sing in a great choir together, to make the parts of the world-stuff separate out into all those forms which he wanted them to have.

"So he created one special angel and named him Uriel. He gave him a special violin made of gold, and every violin that has ever come after in the world is just a pale imitation of Uriel's, my Pappa would say. Uriel lined up all the other angels and raised his hands, just like Monsieur de Carnac does when we rehearse, and all the angels sang the parts which Uriel taught them. Then wonderful things happened - the light from the darkness, the heaven from the earth, the rocks from the ground underneath, and the water from the land."

"I like this a lot better than catechism," one girl said, sitting on the edge of her ottoman.

Kristina smiled, and went on. "Then Uriel bid the rest of the angels be silent. In the great hush that fell over all of heaven, he picked up his golden violin and played until the strings smoked and caught fire, but he still played, and this glorious burning ball appeared in the sky. She had a glorious shining face and a halo of burning white hair, and that was the Sun.

"His golden violin was all burned up, but God liked what he'd done, and so he provided him with another. This one was made of silver, and Uriel played until his strings froze, until his entire violin was covered with ice. In the sky appeared a cold silver ball, and in it was the form of a beautiful man, silent and cold. That was the Moon. Then Uriel's silver violin cracked, and he looked up at the face of God, hoping for another violin, but God simply said to him, 'Wait.'"

"So Uriel waited, and waited. Most of the angels are very patient, but Uriel had a fiery temper and it burned him to wait for a new violin. If you have ever known a violinist, you learn that their fingers always itch for the strings, and are never still, and Uriel was no exception. In the meantime, there was a great war in heaven. For not all the angels were good, as you well know, and those who fought against God all served their great general Lucifer. But the Archangel Michael, and Uriel too, and many of the other good angels fought and struggled until the last of Lucifer's band were all thrown out of heaven. They hid in the dark and secret places of the earth, or beneath it. And God told Uriel that one of his jobs was to watch over the earth, and swat down any devils that got too much out of their places, because God had another plan coming. Uriel still missed his violin, which made him short-tempered, so you can be sure he swatted very hard.

"Now as you all know, God made our first parents, Adam and Eve. After they ate from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, God drove them out of Paradise before they could take fruit from the Tree of Life and live forever. But what you may not know is that it was Uriel to whom God gave the flaming sword, to make sure Adam and Eve didn't try to sneak back in. Then Adam and Eve, dressed all in bear skins, had to go far away from there. After they'd left, Uriel flew over to the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and with his sword of flame cut it down in anger and sorrow, because the sufferings of our first parents made him terribly sad.

"Then God told Uriel, 'Take the wood from the Tree you have just felled, and from it, make your last and best violin.' So Uriel fashioned a violin from the wood of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and the music he played on it was even more beautiful than the gold or silver music he'd used to make the sun and the moon.

"From then on, God gave Uriel the job of flying over the entire earth, bringing music to those who have the ears to hear it, and the hearts to learn it from them. So as the children of Adam and Eve spread over the world, Uriel flew with them over all the lands, where he had many names."

"Like what?" someone piped up.

"Well, for instance, in the Mohammedan lands they call him Israfel, the Angel of Song. And so my Pappa told me that it wasn't enough to learn my scales. I had to open my heart to the Angel of Music, and that if I were lucky, Uriel would touch my heart and I would sing like an angel."

"But you already do, Mademoiselle. We hear you at rehearsal." Kristina looked up at thoughtful little Lisette Avenelle.

"Oh, girls, I said the same thing to my Pappa, telling him that he played his violin like an angel, and he only sighed, saying that he was afraid the Angel of Music had never visited him. Now one should not contradict one's Pappa, but I was afraid I did, because I argued with him, asking how could the Angel of Music not have come to him? But he insisted that he had never seen or felt him. Later, when I grew up, I realized that being 'touched by the Angel of Music' meant more than just being able to play or sing; it was the beginning, not the end. It's like your heart was a lamp, waiting to be lit by Uriel's spark." Out of breath, she stopped, and the air in the room suddenly thickened like gelatin as some presence moved across it, making it ripple.

The girls' uplifted faces could stay quiet only a moment longer, and the air in the room cleared as they erupted into chatter again. "We've heard the Angel of Music! He's here!" "He plays a violin, but can't be seen." "I've heard him where they hang the set pieces!" "What were you doing down there?" "Looking for the Angel, just like you," and on they went.

_Oh, no, here they go again._ "Your ghost plays a violin now?" It was easier to think that the ghostly violin simply resulted from stage excitement, but now the excited fear crept back over her again.

"He does! He does!" they cried out.

"All right," Kristina said, clapping her hands, "Story's over, and it's time to go now. I won't Monsieur Justin rapping me with his stick for keeping you late." In a flutter of tulle and wagging tongues they pressed through the door, but Lisette waited until they were all gone, turned to stare at Kristina for a moment, and then slipped out without saying anything.

* * * * * * * *

Later that night, while the orchestra tuned, while one performer after another took to the stage, it seemed as if Kristina had to wait forever for her turn. But she scarcely noticed, because a tiny and unexplainable happiness crept up on her like the little brown mouse of her song. As she stood in the wings of stage right, clad in dark blue velvet, the glistening white faces shone back at her like coins set in deep shadows. She squinted upwards, but it was impossible to see anything distinct in any of the boxes. Some were too dark. Others had the curtains drawn altogether, and that made her flush a little with embarrassment. Inside one box, little pinpricks of candlelight shone out like glow-worms on a dark summer night. In the candlelight, what looked like a sheet of diamonds flashed white, then seemed to be swallowed in the surrounding gloom. Kristina strained as she stared squinting into the maroon shadows, not knowing what she was looking for. Two men from the ballet waved their hands in front of her face and then shared knowing expressions.

"Don't look at him while you're singing, sweetheart, it's bad luck," one said, teasing.

The other slapped him lightly on the shoulder. He said to his friend, ignoring Kristina now, "Follow your own good advice. Who are you staring at out there, by the way?"

"No one," Kristina said absently, not even noticing she was no longer being addressed.

When Kristina took the stage, it was as if two themes ran through her like oil and water. There was the high-flown agony of the tortured soprano separated from her lover and crying on about it, and the strange story she had told the girls that afternoon. Even if there was no _tomte _here, every city, every church, every building had its own angel associated with it, so there had to be one here, too. He wouldn't be a soft or sentimental angel, or a fat little cherub, but rather a deep and passionate one, fiery like Uriel when he cut down the Tree. She drew deep into herself for the best, the most passionate notes she could muster, and dove into that warm stream of song, the sound of a woman in love, and through the surface she rose and broke over and again, coated with passion. When the notes of the harp struck, sound poured out from Kristina's own heart in a pure column of ecstasy and abandon.

The silence which fell afterwards went on a second too long. _Oh, please, _she thought_, not this. _Was some claque going to start a complaint? Earlier in the evening, another young singer had already gotten a few isolated whistles and catcalls. Then, after that heart-stopping second, the audience erupted into abandoned clapping, and calls of "Brava!" rang out. Afraid to look directly at the audience, Kristina caught the eye of the conductor. Monsieur de Carnac wore a funny half-smile which looked odd only because she'd never seen it before. Usually his thick black brows arranged themselves into a series of scowls and frowns, but now astonishment embellished his face. Kristina relaxed and raised her arms, smiling. A few men threw the carnations from their buttonholes, but they missed and fell into the orchestra pit.

When Kristina returned to her dressing room she found Amelie there, with a few notes from admirers. "I'm glad you saw some sense, and let me come to help you afterwards, Mam'selle," she huffed.

"I did? I thought I left word with Anneke that you were perfectly free to stay in bed."

Amelie pretended she hadn't heard. "You saw the paper this afternoon, right? A young girl murdered over in the Pigalle."

"It's terrible, I know. But you worry too much. When was the last time you saw me go to the Pigalle?" Kristina then turned away, still savoring the warm reaction of the audience. _I've sung better before, at least technically. But that never rated any reaction at all - neither a cheer nor a hiss. _ Looking over the notes absently, she saw no names she recognized but enjoyed their compliments anyway, and went into the boudoir to change.

A knock, and Amelie went to answer. "No, she can't see anyone right now. I'll see if she'll receive you later. Very well, sir, as you wish. I'll take those, thank you." Returning, she bore a large bunch of dark yellow roses tinged at the edges with pink. "They're from a gentleman. He wouldn't give his name when I said you couldn't receive him at the moment. He just left these … no, there's no card."

"Who was he, do you think?"

"Well, if you would let me come up here and help you more often, after performances, perhaps then I might know, wouldn't I?"

"Amelie, I think the most satisfaction you get in life is from torturing me. What did he look like? Was he some withered old hazel stick?"

"He was young, very young, probably no more than twenty-five. A gentleman he was, very refined, with the most elegant evening clothes and top hat. His hair was dark brown, and he wanted to grow a mustache, but the mustache had other ideas and didn't seem to want to come out tonight."

Disappointed, Kristina said, "Well, perhaps he'll come back some other time. Anyway, these are very nice."

Amelie sniffed. "In the language of flowers, yellow roses mean 'jealousy.'"

"I don't even know him; what would he have to be jealous of? Anyway, I don't think many men know that, do you? Because I sang so late into the evening, he probably just grabbed what was left at the flower seller's."

Kristina said nothing to Anneke the next afternoon about the mysterious violin, or the strange comments of the girls; nothing about her surprisingly warm reception, or the yellow roses. The thrilling response of the night before was gone from her mind; instead she hummed "The Little Brown Mouse," as if by repeating it she could invoke once again that odd quivering fear which seized her when she squinted up into Box 17, and as she recalled that eerie violin.

"What is that you're singing?" Anneke asked, as Kristina combed her hair before bed. "It's been ages since I've heard you sing something on your own. It sounds familiar."

"It's just a little Swedish tune, one Mamma used to sing."

After a few more bars, Anneke's eyes sparked in recognition. "It makes your face light up. I haven't seen you so bright over music in a while."

Kristina said nothing, and so Anneke came to sit next to her on the bed. "I know it hasn't been easy for you. I know that I pushed you to finish your studies at the New Music Institute, even when you wanted to leave. After your father's death, it seemed as if all the heart went out of you, yet you still struggled on. As I see it now, it was wrong, Kristina, and I'm not too proud to admit it. You worked so hard - some of your days were so long that I thought you would fall apart from exhaustion, but on you worked. Still, I could see that there was little joy in it for you."

She took the younger woman's chin gently in her hand. Kristina's heart hurt to see the lines in her face, and how white her hair had become in the past few years.

"I haven't told you this yet," Anneke went on, "but Fru Guttingen from church has been wanting me to go to Havre with her, to visit her daughter and their new baby. I have put her off because I've been worried about you; how you hadn't seem settled or happy."

"You should go. The full theatrical season starts very soon, and you would just miss me. I don't want to think of you sitting here lonely in the evenings, or with only Amelie's worries to keep you company. Go to Havre. I'll be fine. You know the coming of winter always cheers me up, anyway."

"It always has, hasn't it? Spring and summer were when you tended to droop."

"Only in Paris. When we went to Brittany in the summer, it made me immensely happy. I liked it in the winter, too, even when no one else did."

"Parisians don't know how to dress for the cold. We must buy you a fur before I go, Kristina."

"That's so extravagant!"

"We have the money, and not only a fur, but warm boots besides. These pointy little things the Parisian girls wear – they can't walk in them, and they don't keep the feet warm."

"You miss the traditional dresses, don't you?"

"Indeed – no corsets, and three or four wool skirts and petticoats keep a body warm all winter long. But I insist – before I go to Havre, we buy you a fur."

Shortly thereafter, with a new beaver coat hanging in her wardrobe, wrapped in camphor to keep it fresh until the cold weather, Kristina went to the auditorium of the Eclectic Theater in the gray morning light to do a little rehearsing on her own. She liked to sing on the vast, empty stage and fill that massive expanse up to the highest rows. So she trilled, and warbled, and played with cadenzas up and down the scale. Practice wasn't the only motivation. She moved over that wide wooden causeway like a general examining the field on the day before the battle. If she walked over it, sang over it, perhaps she might make it her own, so that the stage or her voice wouldn't betray her.

Then, as she had first heard it in Number Seven, there came again in the background the faint sound of a violin accompaniment. When she stopped, it stopped. At first she thought that her ears rang from the loud echoes, so after a moment she started up again, and once more, there it was.

The huge dark hall glowed maroon from the shadowy boxes and seats. All at once the size of the room overwhelmed her. Now she was no longer alone that darkened cavern, for someone - something - was there too. Powerful waves of interest came at her from somewhere in that hall.

The melody came upon her almost stealthily, quietly - a single low B-flat, it seemed. If only her pitch was perfect, she wished. A slow swell gradually grew and surged upward in a wide upward voice which called out for something lost long ago. The melody lifted higher, tighter and more dramatically, then softly collapsed to the same heartfelt starting note, low as a sigh. It repeated, climbing up, and held this time at the peak, moving about slowly up and down, then relaxed into a gentle resolution of the chord.

The violin played several wavering measures, as if the tune were asking itself a question, and then answering, in a languorous conversation which changed its color as it passed from gently inquiring to faintly sad, and then resolved itself again into the initial melody, but faint and very high, as if far away. Kristina closed her eyes, and imagined two lovers on top of two of the highest peaks, calling to each other over the valley, their voices carrying faint but true on the icy clear air. The same initial theme returned like a gentle caress, and then that upwelling, swaying pitch climbed again, peaked, and sank trembling down once more to its final tone.

It took some time for her to find her voice. In the silence that followed, all she could hear was her heart, but the walls seemed to contain that music, unheard now, but still there.

"Where are you?" she called out, and the many-armed statues surrounding the auditorium seemed to move in the dim light. A moment of silence, and then the answer came. A low, sonorous voice rang out, "Up here."

"Where? I can't see you, it's too dark."

Silence filled the space left by that heavenly violin.

"What was that you were playing?" she called.

"Did you like it?"

"Indeed I did. I didn't recognize it. What is it called?"

His voice sounded like a cello, as close to the sounds of a cello which the voice of a man could make. _There's a big chest behind that voice, deep and spacious._ Anneke and the professor had had a cellist friend in Uppsala. At one evening's recital, he had let her put her hand on the broad curved cello's side while he played. At the lowest notes, the wood had thrummed with powerful vibrations, just like this voice. Just like it would feel if her hand rested on that chest.

More silence, and then low and shy the voice said, "Something I made for you, just now."

Who was this, speaking to her from the dark red shadows? "How do you know me?"

"How could one visit the Eclectic Theater and not know who you are?"

She flushed at the familiarity and squinted as hard as she could up into the tiered layers. Did the shadows in Box 17 show up more brightly and with a lighter red than the others? "You made this up? You are quite a composer, then, Monsieur. It is one of the most beautiful pieces of violin music I have ever heard. My father was a violinist - not a trained one, but he remembered everything he ever heard, whether it was an oratorio from the Mass, or a fiddle tune from a country fair, but he never played anything like that. Are you one of the orchestra violinists?"

"No," the voice responded. "I play and compose only for my own pleasure. If you will allow me, I will come again some time when you are practicing here, for your pleasure as well. But now I must go."

"Wait," she called out. "I don't know your name …"

The voice dropped off into silence. No footfall, no scrape of a chair across carpet, no rustle of a curtain, no click of a door. Just thick, dark silence.

Kristina frantically rummaged through what she remembered of the ballet girls' chatter._ What was the box number Lisette had mentioned, the one belonging to the theater's so-called ghost? Seventeen. I think I'll go have a look at Box 17._

The box doors were all locked. Kristina looked around the deserted passageway outside, but there was no sign of the box mistress. Of course she wouldn't be there. Lisette and her mother lived in a building over on the Rue Noel, where Mme. Avenelle served as concierge. She wouldn't arrive until afternoon. Kristina tried the locked door again, then rapped hard and long. A rustle came from inside, or a very quiet footstep, but no one answered. Someone had drawn the curtain over the door's little glass porthole.

A gleaming tapestry with cymbal-fingered, gauze-clad dancers hung between the door of Box 17 and its neighbor. Kristina studied the glittering figures for a few minutes, then left, embarrassed to lurk outside a locked theater box. Who was it that not only spoke to her, but filled her head with a tune which she wanted to pick up and caress? One that he said he had made up on the spot, just for her?

After Kristina escorted Anneke to the train station, and the two women had bid their good-byes, Amelie and Kristina looked warily at each other out of the corners of their eyes on the way back home, but Amelie said nothing until Kristina turned the key in the lock.

"I think I should move my things in." Amelie's face was set with stubbornness.

"I wouldn't think of it, Amelie. You have your own mother to care for, and with just me here, there won't be much for you to do. Besides, I am in daily rehearsals now, so it will be lonely for you, and all you'll do is worry about me."

"It's not fitting or decent," she insisted.

"Amelie, what did Mme. Sibelius say before she left?"

"That you were the mistress of the house in her absence, Mam'selle."

"That's right, and I've made my decision. Come in in the late morning, after you've gotten your mother settled. I want to be fair to you; your wages won't be cut."

She looked indignant, and Kristina saw that she had gone too far. "This isn't about wages. It's about your reputation."

"I won't do anything to embarrass you, don't worry. But I do work in theater, and that means late nights, irregular hours, and sometimes engagements afterwards."

"I've heard about those 'engagements' afterwards."

"Well, if I am invited to one, I just might go, so you must get used to the idea. Also, if it is too late or I am too tired, I will simply sleep in my dressing room. I will try to send you a note if I can, but don't worry if I don't."

Amelie's furrowed black brows scowled. "I'm going to read about you in the newspapers some day, I'm sure of it. A true lady is never mentioned in the papers, unless she is married or dead."

"Oh, I'm a regular one-woman walking crime spree, you can be sure," Kristina said, escaping into her narrow bedroom, waiting until the door was firmly shut and she could press her face into the pillow to let out all her stifled laughter.

But her laughter didn't last long. As Kristina settled herself into the worn but soft wingback chair near her bed, thoughts of Amelie weighed heavily on her mind. She knew Amelie's motives went beyond worries for Kristina's safety when Amelie begged to come to the theater and help during performances. Amelie lived with her oldest daughter, a heavy, plain girl with no prospects of marrying, and her partially paralyzed mother. Amelie found the whirl and bustle of the theater exciting, Kristina knew. _It isn't fair to entirely deprive her of a little backstage excitement. On the other hand, this is something I want for myself, that I don't even want to share entirely with Anneke. It's as if the playhouse is my sandbox, and I don't want to share my toys. I especially don't want to share the mystery of that man who played for me. In addition, her fears tire me out. _

To avoid confronting her stubborn maid, early the next morning Kristina slipped out of the apartment before Amelie arrived, and headed straight for the auditorium. Carpenters hammered away, preparing the stage for that night's performance of _Romeo and Juliet,_ but not the famous one by M. Gounod. The master composer had mostly gone into retirement at St. Cloud, but still refused the Eclectic Theater managers' repeated requests to perform his work, and so they'd commissioned their own. Instead of warming up for singing, Kristina chatted for awhile with a tall set-builder perched up on a scaffolding. His round tan arms pulled the ropes as if they were sewing threads. She glanced off and on at his shock of close-cut blond hair and full beard. Far above the stage, the scene changers hoisted the huge set pieces into position.

She called to the blond set builder, "This won't bother you if I warm up, will it?"

"Just don't whistle," he shouted back.

"I know that," she answered. "Do you think I've never trodden the boards before?"

"Oh, so you know it all, eh? Tell me why you shouldn't whistle."

Kristina laughed lightly. He was such a boy, despite that beard, and he looked at her with such cheek. "Because so many of you were once sailors, and that's how you tell each other which ropes to knot, and which to let go." She made a show of looking him up and down. "You could have been a sailor."

He blushed. "Is it my fault I'd rather drive a nail? I left as soon as my commission was up."

"None whatever," she said, and turned away to begin. Her voice climbed up and down the ladders of the scales, punctuated only by the taps of hammers as the men worked behind her. She hoped for an interruption and feared that none would come. Then a note cut through both the stage noise and the singing, and for her all sound stopped, even though the men continued to work. With increasingly piercing sweetness the haunting melody pushed through her, leaving her waiting breathlessly to hear the next measure, waiting to hear the whole story and how it would end.

The set builders continued to work. If they stopped for every toot or scrape, they'd never get anything done. The sound of a lone musician wasn't extraordinary enough to distract them from their deadline. To hear more closely, away from their hammers and saws, Kristina left the stage and went into the auditorium itself. Up she looked to the rising wall of tiers, and suddenly over in the region of Box 17 slid a shape, barely visible in the encompassing dark. A man's head bobbed over the see-sawing motions of his hands on the violin, as he moved through the stirring sarabande.

Paintings of the Orient covered the walls and ceiling dome of the Eclectic Theater. Harem girls in spangled gauze lounged on cushions puffy as clouds. Whirling dervishes spreading their flowing skirts in perfect circles as they spun in religious fervor. A genie haloed in flames rose out of a golden box. All these images seemed to come to life under the touch of the unseen violinist, who continued to play, rapt in his own musical inventions.

Kristina wasn't content to just listen any longer, though. She slipped out of the auditorium, headed up the stairs and almost flew towards Box 17. When she arrived, panting, she looked around nervously before trying the door. Once again it was locked, and from the inside came that extraordinary music. She pressed her face against the small curtained window, and the glass itself jumped with the swirling sounds. There she stood, determined to wait outside the box until he came out. After a time, the wild dance wound down to a small flutter. Everything was still, but no one came out of the box.

She stood there for some long minutes, hating to admit defeat. Just as she was about to leave, a rustle of skirts behind her caught her attention. There stood the box mistress, a short, stout lady of about thirty-five, clad in a worn black dress and clean white smock. It had to be Lisette's mother, Mme. Avenelle.

"Oh, I am so glad you arrived," Kristina gushed. "I would so like to see the inside of a box. Do you know, I've been here for over two months, and have never been into one? Can you show me this one here?"

"Mlle. Sigurdsdotter, is it? I remember you now. Lisette talks about you. She said your name was long and unpronounceable. I don't find it so." Her voice was serious, as if she were a banker and not a box-keeper. She quickly slipped a thick white envelope into her pocket. "No, that box is closed, and no person enters it except me."

Kristina feigned wide-eyed innocence. "There's no subscriber, then?"

"Indeed not. That is the private box of the our very own ghost. In fact, I'm going in to clean it now. He doesn't like dust in his box."

The "ghost" again. "Why, does it make him sneeze?"

The woman drew herself up to her full height, which wasn't much, and fired off a glare very similar to the one Anneke had reserved for extreme impertinence when Kristina was younger. "Mademoiselle, if you are to be happy here at the Eclectic Theater, you must learn to respect our ghost. He is very dignified and does not take kindly to flippant remarks about his habits or character."

"Oh, Mme. Avenelle, I would never show disrespect to a ghost. It's just that he's not the kind I'm used to, that's all. Could you tell me more about him, so that I don't make a mistake like that again?"

"He's been here since the opening of the theater, perhaps before. Ever since anyone could remember, people have talked of hearing something like a flute or an accordion playing in the auditorium, in the hallways and the tunnels, or deep down below."

"A flute? I thought the girls said he played a violin."

"Girls, feh," and she waved her hand. "One starts a story, and they all follow it like ducklings after their mother. Down in the deep cellar where the great pool is, they say they can hear two voices sometimes singing together - one, a most beautiful man's voice, and another, a woman's."

"Is there a lady ghost, then, too?"

"It would not surprise me, girl, not at all. He goes all over the theater. Sometimes he will move through the darker passageways like a grey cat in the night and as hard to see, and then he'll disappear right before your eyes, even in a dead-end corridor."

"Have you ever seen him yourself?" The rich mahogany wood of the box door invited Kristina to come inside, if she could only get by the substantial obstacle of Mme. Avenelle. Curiosity bit her like a thousand ants, driving her frantic with anticipation to see what was in there.

"I might have," and Mme. Avenelle's voice grew almost soft. "The managers were pacing up and down the hallway outside their offices, saying things like 'How could he have gotten in?' and 'What shall we do now?' A crowd of subscribers cut me off in the hall, and I went around another way, only to find myself in a strange passageway. There he was, a grey spot in a grey cloak at the end of the hallway, and I only saw him from behind. Before he slipped away he turned to me and raised his hand to his face, making a 'shh' sound, but I didn't see much of him. Suddenly he melted into the wall."

"The girls said his head was a skull."

"No, the part about the skull is nonsense," she replied. "Just girls being silly. I'm sure you know they chase him around the halls, for fun. But he doesn't seem to mind; I think he knows they're only foolish children and mean no harm. But I can't say the same for the managers, though."

"The managers?" Suddenly she missed Anneke terribly, away dandling a baby on her knee. Anneke could cut through this conversation with its increasingly bizarre twists and turns like a knife through custard. Was Mme. Avenelle mad? She didn't look mad, however. She described her "ghost" in the same matter-of-fact tone Kristina herself had used when telling the girls of the _tomte_ on the old farm.

"He wrote the managers a note, telling them that he would protect the theater and keep the seats full if they would keep Box 17 open for him alone. At first they laughed, but strange things happened on slower nights. It was I who suggested that they get back into his good graces by paying him a salary."

"Strange things happen in theaters every night. So if it is not too personal to ask, what is this ghost's salary?"

"Two hundred francs a month, but unfortunately the managers have been missing their payments. The bookkeepers have been here, complaining about too many sous here, too many sous there, and they think they can get away with not paying him what is due."

"What would a ghost want with money? How could he hold it, or take it to the shops and spend it?"

Mme. Avenelle blinked in amazement. "Well, for one thing, he keeps a horse. In the opera stables. He pays one of the grooms to care for it."

"A real horse?" Kristina sputtered. "Not a ghostly horse? I have heard of ghost horses - we have them all over Sweden - but I just don't know what to think about this. Does the 'ghost' ride this horse?"

"Of course, girl, a horse needs exercise. He's a black gelding brought here to work as a stage horse, but he proved too spirited and nervous under the lights. They were going to sell him, but the ghost told them not to."

A black gelding? Kristina remembered a horse in the stable, "well-ridden," the ostler had said. "The Friesian," she said. "There was one in the stable. Do you mean that one?"

Mme. Avenelle scooted past Kristina, her irritated expression signaling that the interview was over. "Enough of your questions, now. In my day, when a girl prattled on with endless curiosity, she got a lick of soap on her tongue. Just take my word for it and leave Box 17 alone. Now down the stairs with you so I can get to my work."

Kristina wanted to ask how many swipes of the soap Lisette had gotten, but Mme. Avenelle had turned away. She flicked her apron at Kristina, and the meaning of that thick packet of francs in her apron pocket became clear. Kristina frowned at her broad departing back. As she went back down the stairs, she grumbled to herself, _Mme. Avenelle has the ghost's salary to pay, after all. No doubt she leaves it for him in Box 17. Or keeps it in her own pocket, which is more likely. She must think I'm a fool, that I didn't see that well-padded envelope. _

(Continued ...)

**A/N**: The "Angel of Music" story is a mixture of folklore, a bit of _The Silmarillion_, and my own invention.


	7. Box 17

**Box 17**

The next morning Kristina came earlier to the auditorium than usual. To her surprise, the set crew for _La Juive_ had started even before she'd arrived, and a hive of activity buzzed around the main stage. Kristina walked around it a few times clockwise for luck, and almost ran into that carpenter again, with his rough blond hair and rope-muscled arms, who watched her with a grin on his face.

"How can you sing over this racket?" he asked, flashing a grin that was easy to return. "I didn't think you were going to serenade us this morning," he said. "No way to hear over this racket."

"Have you ever stood right next to a singer and heard her sing as loudly as she could? I doubt you could drown me out."

"Let's try," he said, picking up his hammer.

"Oh, what are you going to hit with that? My toe? Besides, I can't drown you out right away. I have to warm up first."

"You're just waiting for the mystery violinist," he chided. "I heard you two earlier. It's just your day to break my heart," and he squeezed his hands to his chest.

"You've heard him before?" she asked, suddenly breathless.

"Once in a while he comes early in the morning to play, always from that box up there, the one they call the 'ghost's box.' At first some of the older men were afraid, thinking that it was the theater's ghost. Then they were afraid the ghost would toss him out on his ear. I didn't pay any attention until you started singing with him. I can't believe these old men," and he nodded his head to the thickset, graying carpenters. "The way they fawn over him, you'd think he was real or something."

"How do you know he isn't?"

He stuck his hammer in his belt and planted his arms squarely on his hips. His hair shone very blond in the footlights. About twenty-five years old; so confident in himself, and what strong hips they were, too. "There are a lot of accidents in this business. A set can fall on you. You can fall from the flies. A fifty kilo prop can hit you on the foot. Every time something happens, the so-called ghost gets blamed. It's a way for people to cover up for their own stupidity."

"Stories start for a reason," Kristina retorted.

He rolled his eyes. "I'd hoped you were one of the sensible ones that didn't hold with those superstitions. Anyway," he said, and his eyes took on a teasing light, "I thought you came in so early to see me."

She looked aside, a little embarrassed, and decided to ignore the last remark. "If it's so stupid to wish for luck, then all I've wasted is a moment. If it works, then I'm ahead, right?"

"It's all nonsense. If something falls, it's because of a combination of forces."

"What forces?"

"You know, uh, weights and things."

She stared at him, trying not to laugh. "Well, if you won't touch wood," she said, bending down to rap the stage three times, "I'll do it for you. When you're up there in the flies, you could use some luck. And you're right, too, about it being too noisy in here. I'm off."

"Going to look for your ghost, then?" he laughed as he pulled a rope which raised a section of a wall. The muscles in his arms moved like living things, each with a mind of its own. He sensed her looking and turned around, still laughing. "Doesn't this beat a misty, ghostly arm?"

"Maybe the two of you should arm-wrestle," she said, and before he had a chance to come up with another wisecrack, both of them came to attention as the clatter in the auditorium turned suddenly to a hushed silence.

It broke abruptly with the creak, and then slamming thud of the big double doors which led into the auditorium. Monsieur Blanchette bustled down down the center aisle with a gaggle of subscribers in tow for an early-morning tour. The carpenter, seeing his employer, was gone. Secretly glad for an audience, Kristina began warming up, and sensed the group shift its attention from Blanchette's pompous tones to herself. She launched into Rachel's death song from _La Juive_, right before they deep-fried her like a chicken, and heard several admiring murmurs from the group. But there was not a single stroke of the bow from the mystery violinist.

Some of the group sat down to listen, and when Kristina stopped to rest, Blanchette detached himself from the crowd and came forth with a tall, thick-set gentleman with reddish hair and fine morning clothes. Blanchette signaled Kristina to come round and down off stage right, and said that the gentleman wanted to present himself for an introduction. She came forward reluctantly, and he pushed himself forward towards her, so that his sharp nose almost touched hers. His hard blue eyes stared down directly into her own.

"Monsieur le Comte de Coucy, may I present our newest soprano from Sweden, Mlle. Sigurdsdotter? Mlle. Sigurdsdotter, the Comte Etienne de Coucy."

Kristina gave a small curtsy and extended her hand, which was difficult, as the Comte de Coucy stood so close to her.

"I am honored to meet you, Mademoiselle, and know that you will no doubt serve the Eclectic Theater as our own second 'Swedish nightingale.'" Then the Comte lowered his sharp-nosed face dramatically to her hand, lifting it so that his bristly sandy mustache, but not his lips, touched the back. He raised his eyes, and they shone with a cold blue fire. So this was the Comte de Coucy, whom she had already seen in the corridors of the dancers' rooms late in the evenings, the lover of principal ballerina Mirella for some two years now.

And he was the elder brother of Louvel de Coucy.

His hand lingered a few seconds too long, and she wondered if he were getting tired of dancing girls. "You flatter me, Monsieur Comte," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "I am very new here and have much still to learn."

De Coucy turned to Blanchette. "Certainly we will soon hear this radiant voice do justice to Rachel some day?"

Blanchette flushed red and looked askance for a second, then recovered. "Oh, casting decisions are always complicated, Monsieur le Comte. You know that. Mademoiselle Sigurdsdotter has done splendidly in her roles, just splendidly."

"But surely such dedication, such desire to die for love of one's faith and people, might shine especially well from our new nightingale here."

Both Blanchette and Kristina squirmed in embarrassment. Blanchette replied, "Perhaps Mlle. Sigurdsdotter would be so kind as to give you a small recitation."

With throat was so dry she could barely speak, she said, "From _La Juive_?"

The Comte smiled at her full and wide, a smile which revealed gleaming strong teeth and bypassed his eyes entirely. "Whatever Mademoiselle wishes," he said smoothly. "Any note that falls from your lips will no doubt glisten like a pearl of pure pleasure."

Then he advanced toward the stage, and everyone followed him like ducklings trailing their mother to the pond. Ascending stage right, Kristina said, "Are you sure you don't want to listen from the orchestra, Monsieur Comte? It sounds very different from up here," but he simply chuckled and waved dismissively, then stood near her almost as close as a tenor would have. Yet he wasn't a tenor, but a tall, full-bodied man in his late thirties who smelled of cologne, and Kristina shifted in discomfort.

A sudden sense came over her of eyes watching from the dark, waiting with unnatural stillness.

So Kristina sang _Il va venir!_ from Act II of _La Juive_, but unlike Rachel, it wasn't fear that filled her with horrified expectation, but the thought of something else. Rachel's "heart beat, but not with pleasure." The girl stretched and relaxed into the sound. _What about mine_? she thought.

De Coucy stood so close, she feared he could hear the beating of her heart even above the breaking wave of her voice. When she moved away from him he didn't follow. "It will come," Rachel sang, referring to her martyrdom for her faith. It will come, Kristina sang, whatever's out there on the threshold of the red dark, waiting for me. Let it come.

Finally she fell silent. The upper tiers blurred before her, but she stared up into them anyway, slowly searching from one box to the next. _You're up there, watching me. I can feel your attention on me like oil on my skin. I'm going to find you, soon._

"Mlle. Sigurdsdotter? Excuse me? Are you all right?" de Coucy asked.

"Of course. I'm fine. It's just a very moving piece, that's all."

He reached out to take her arm, but she turned toward Blanchette and said, "Thank you so much for giving me that opportunity to sing Rachel." Flustered, Blanchette looked between de Coucy and Kristina, but said only, "Breakfast in my office, gentlemen. Excuse me," he nodded to everyone on the stage. "Please carry on."

The stage workers waited to resume their tapping and shouting until Blanchette and his retinue vanished through the wide front doors. Then they slipped out through the backstage, probably to take a smoke, or to pass around a flask of strong black coffee. Kristina was left alone, surrounded by great folds of deeply-colored red curtains, and a vast unwhispering dark.

She sat in a velvet auditorium chair, absently stroking its cherry-colored softness with one hand, pushing pins into her unkempt hair with the other, listening hard for the mysterious violinist of Box 17. On the opposite side of the auditorium glimmered the top of that box's door, and its porthole was illuminated by the dim corridor light. If the door should chance to open, she would see at least a brief glimpse of his head if it should flash before that bright space. Kristina took out her opera glasses, a poor substitute for spectacles, but they would do in a tight corner like this.

A few minutes later, the silhouette of a head blocked the porthole but the door stayed closed. Through her glasses she spied a rustle of dark movements in the dim light, and then the figure tucked a violin under his chin.

The most wonderful sounds filled the great hall. The low, melancholy melody started up as if the interruption with Etienne de Coucy and his entourage hadn't happened at all. It filled her spirit with heartbreak and longing, and made her want to dance and cry at the same time.

It was Kristina's audition piece from weeks before, "Sorgio, O Padre." The unseen violinist played the introductory bars a few times, and she trembled a little. _You're inviting me. You know I'm here listening to you. You see through me; you know I didn't come here just to rehearse._ A great blossom of anticipation opened out from the very center of her body.

It was an invitation, and she joined in, opening her voice to the plaintive sound. _This is no orchestra violinist. His beautiful playing has the same wild, untrained sound as my poor father's. I would have heard something like this in the orchestra, and it wouldn't have fit, where everyone has to blend with everyone else. But I can imagine it in the woods by a gleaming waterfall, or at the fair, or on a pilgrimage. But in comparison to this man, my father was a scratchy fiddler who'd just picked up a bow._

When Kristina stopped, he sang the same music back to her, lowering it to accommodate his range. If melted gold could sing, it would sound like him, and the tears flew to her eyes. Phrase after phrase flowed out of him without a pause for breath, with undiminished power. He sang softly, but underneath hummed an engine of strength. When he had spoken before, his chest had sounded massive, and now her heart beat fast to think of what kind of frame, what kind of breath control could produce that sound. Where had he learned to sing like that?

He could not sing the serious opera on stage, though, for like his violin playing, his voice was not "trained" in its sound. But trained or not, it was over far too soon. She felt suddenly shy and exposed, as if there was nothing in between her and those unseen eyes. "Please play more," she finally called out, like a greedy child with only one thought, to hear more. "Please play a long time. I can't listen to you enough."

He started with a rollicking wedding tune, similar to what the traveling fiddlers would play in the countryside on Saint John's Eve in Brittany. The music stirred her toes and her blood, and she had an idea. _I have to meet this man. I want to see him, to speak to him. He's got to be occupied by such energetic playing; perhaps he won't see me._

As he played, she crept between the seats and out the side door adjacent to Box 17, and ran up the stairs as quickly as possible. As she sidled up the stairs, she prayed that Mme. Avenelle was at home sorting the mail, or going to hear the Mass, anything to keep her away from that fateful door.

She heard him as he played inside Box 17, but shook her head in frustration at the locked door handle, at the curtain drawn across the porthole as well. Well, if Box 17 was locked, what about its neighbor? She seized the handle of the neighboring box door, and it swung aside. Tiptoeing in, she closed it as carefully and silently as she could, hoping that he didn't hear her. He must not have, because he kept playing. _I shouldn't be here. I'm really going to catch it if they find me. It's mad what I'm doing, sneaking up on a musician by creeping through an empty box. _She bumped her shin on a chair and froze, but the music went on.

Dodging the chairs, her skirt brushed up against the chairs at the front of the box and she became still again, fearing he'd heard. His playing slowed down as he switched to a slow, sad tune which burst into little flutters and trills occasionally, like two violins talking to each other. She crept around the front of the box, hiding behind the heavy velvet curtain. As she peeked out towards Box 17, she saw how the back of his head moved to and fro to the beat, and how his bow scissored out behind the curtain. He moved with a free smooth energy, slow or fast as the music seized him.

Kristina had a mad thought. As a girl, no haylofts, barn roofs, or even the slate roof of an Uppsala townhouse had been safe from her climbing. Once, a strapping young builder working on a nearby roof had to fetch her down from that steep slope. Why not climb over to Box 17? She looked carefully at the gap between the two balconies, separated by a statue of a caryatid, but one with a ridge around the base. If she stood up on the edge of the balcony, walked carefully over and reached around the statue, then swung over to the balcony to the right, she could neatly leap down into Box 17. All she had to do was not look down.

She didn't need stockings or boots, she saw at once. It was better to get a toehold without them. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the buttons on her shoes, but finally she got them off, and shoved them under one of the chairs. She hitched up her skirts as best she could, then climbed up onto the balcony railing, grabbing hold of the statue on her right, first on one of its arms and then around its cold middle. A breeze blew up her skirt from below. _Careful, girl, just swing the left foot around, then inch over with the right._ The base of the statue was more slippery than it looked, and she tried to grip harder with her toes, but it was as if the statue had been waxed. It had four arms on one side and four on another, and its bronze breasts pushed into her face.

She grabbed the statue's other set of arms and pulled herself over slowly out of the way of those jutting breasts. _How far do those things have to stick out?_ The music went on as she peeked over into the box, and there was his back, all in grey. Long dark hair covered the back of his collar, and he swayed, rocking as he scissored his bow.

Another draft floated right up between her legs. She looked down, wanting to see what caused it? _Oh, no. That's not possible. It can't be that far down to the floor. _But it was, and a sick wave washed over her. Her feet seemed to slip out from underneath, and she grabbed hard for a toehold. Suddenly all that space opened up below, all twenty meters up and almost as much around. Behind her, above her, and under was nothing but air, and then a long ten meter drop to the floor below.

Her head swam. _ I'm going to fall. My brains are going to splat on that floor. Amelie will get her wish; I'll be in the papers for a respectable reason, because I'll be stone cold dead. Since I'm going to die, it probably doesn't matter that the violin has stopped entirely, and if I look up, which I can't, because my eyes are fixed on that carpet ten meters below me, but if I did look up, I'd see him looking at me making a complete and utter fool of myself. But that won't matter, because in two seconds I'll be a big smear on the carpet anyway._

Her skirt fell down around her foot. As she fought to kick it aside, she lost her balance and screamed. Lunging, she caught the rim of Box 17's balcony, and hung on for life itself. She felt her death coming to call, as her straining fingers slipped under her weight. Kicking frantically, she searched for a foothold of any kind, but her skirt unknotted itself and flapped wildly.

Two iron hands gripped around her arms and pulled her with terrifying strength into the air. She caught a glimpse of a long pale face with striking dark eyes, and then lost her breath as those arms dragged her over the balcony rim. A chair crashed aside and she winced, then slammed into the floor and flopped there like a hooked trout, breathless and terrified.

She lay there with her cheek pressed into the carpet, too embarrassed to open her eyes, thinking that if she didn't open them, she'd find herself home in bed, and this would have been just be another stupid nightmare. Then warm hands gently shook her shoulder, and that sonorous voice said, "What can I do? Are you all right?"

"Yes," she said, still hiding behind her eyelids. "My breath - just got knocked out."

"Can you sit up?"

She didn't move. His hands were warm, and he tried to pull her gently up to a sitting position, but she resisted. "No, wait, in a second I'll try."

He said nothing, and slowly, almost like a caress, his hands withdrew.

Slowly she opened her eyes. She saw boots of soft black leather, like the ones the ballet boys wore. Then came trim pants in soft dark grey fabric, but of an unusual cut - not dress clothes, but not workmen's clothes, either. They fit close to well-shaped legs and thighs, and on those thighs rested two large, blocky hands, those hands that had lifted her so effortlessly.

Dizzily, she tried to sit up, and his hands came down again to help. Before her he knelt with slow, fluid motion, and she rose up on her hands as if to meet him. First she saw his big upper body, the broad chest and shoulders outlined clearly by the folds of his loose jacket, and then she saw his face.

He looked at her calmly, as if waiting for her to say something, or react.

The upper part of his face struck Kristina with its tragedy. His large Roman nose pushed forward, but then on the wings of the nostrils it was mashed down. The skin of his entire upper face ridged up into pouches and furrows, as if you had squeezed the back of your hand to make the loose skin form into folds. One of Dr. Sibelius's pupils had been burned as a child, on the head, and the puckered dark skin that remained of his ear looked somewhat like this man's markings.

But his skin was not discolored, as that poor pupil's had been, and it didn't look like a burn or even scar tissue at all. She struggled to get into a sitting position. He bent down a little further and gave her his arm to support herself. "Slowly," he said. "You took a hard fall there."

He sat back relaxed on his heels, letting her look at at the corrugated skin of his face, and she fell into the deep-set pools of his dark, still eyes. His lashes were so black that they looked like rings. The skin around his eyes was somewhat blue and bruised-looking, and the eyes themselves were pools of dark brown, almost black, with wide, enlarged pupils. He seemed like a man in his prime, in his middle thirties, but the silver lights in the black, upswept hair made him look a little older.

As the shock wore off, she began to shake and then to cry. It would have been so easy to have been dashed to the floor below, and she felt that reality now that she was safe.

He rummaged in his pockets. "I don't seem to have a handkerchief on me."

"There's one in my pocket, I'm sure," and there it was, a little lace hanky she had sewn years ago, when she had first been taught by Anneke how to make lace.

"It's all right."

She wiped her nose and eyes. "Thank you. Thank you so much for pulling me up. I'm such an idiot, and I feel so stupid. I'm not hurt, I don't think. Just my dignity."

"If you would have knocked, I would have let you in."

He offered her his arm, and glided to his feet as she took it. She found herself lifted on heated hard muscle beneath the soft wool of his coat. His face was all warm with concern, and it eclipsed his ruined skin.

She looked away, flushing, still holding on to his arm and not wanting to let go. She became suddenly aware that he was trembling like a greyhound, shaking not from exertion, but with emotion, and it made her shake a little too. _His chest is as big as I thought, and what shoulders. Let it go, foolish girl, what are you doing? I've got to get out of here. _She tried to skirt around him, but his broad frame blocked the way. He had just shaved; his face had that newly-scraped glow.

He smelled like astringent soap, mixed with a little sweat and a faint trace of horse. The spirit of the theater was supposed to have a horse, she remembered. _What's going on here? It's like that English story, where the girl went through the looking-glass, into a world where nothing made sense anymore. _"Please excuse me," she said, trying to control her shaking voice. "I am grateful, but I must get my shoes, and I can't trouble you any more. Please." He moved aside, but the box grew narrow at the door, and his length brushed up close to her as she fumbled with the lock. "I can't get it open."

He reached around, quite close now, and easily opened the lock, but Kristina didn't move. The wool of his jacket was warm where she leaned against it slightly, and she pulled back, not wanting to, ashamed and excited all at once. Where her arm brushed his wool jacket a tiny spark crackled. Softly he said, "I'll be here in this box tomorrow morning, at eight. Will you?"

She nodded, yes, and slowly, almost reluctantly she went out the door and into the corridor. He shut the door firmly behind him and the porthole went dark.

The lock clicked.

She went back to the nearby box, where she'd stashed her boots, and looked around the balcony back into 17, but it was entirely empty. Back out into the hall she ran, turning right and left, then back again, but no one was there.

_That's not possible. I would have heard him, or seen him, and yet he was nowhere. As if he'd vanished into the walls. Stupid, stupid girl. Stupid wooden head. You didn't even ask him his name._

Her hands were so sore, she could scarcely fumble her way through the boot buttons. One arm was cut where it had scraped over the balcony ridge. A huge hole gaped under one arm of her dress, and down in front ran a long lacerated rip. Tears of embarrassment stung her again and she fumbled for her handkerchief, but it wasn't there.

It must have been back in Box 17, now locked. Nothing would make her try a stunt like that again just to get back an old lace hanky. Anyway, she could get it tomorrow.

* * * * * * * * * *

The next morning, Kristina avoided the auditorium altogether and headed directly upstairs to Box 17. There, like the Sphinx guarding the gates of Thebes, stood Mme. Avenelle with a rag in one hand and a bottle of lemon oil in the other, busily polishing the gleaming wood box door.

"Good morning," Kristina said, trying hard to fight back the irritation. Of course she had to come now, of all times. Didn't she have some steps to wash, like back at her building?

"Mlle. Sigurdsdotter. What would you be doing up here this morning? I thought I told you not to bother our ghost."

"Well, good Madame, it seems that I was invited to this very box, and I'm right on time."

The change in her face was extraordinary. She whirled around and her rag fluttered to the floor. Very red, she said, "You were invited? He invited you?"

"So you know who he is?"

"Of course I do. Didn't I tell you last time? This is different, a different thing altogether. Come in, and call me 'Mother,' dear." She unlocked the door with one of her skeleton keys, then swung it wide and held it open, as if for a princess crossing the threshold.

The box was darkly empty, deeply red with its rich curtains and thick rug. Even the coverings on the wingback chairs shone maroon in the low gaslight. It was soft as a garnet which had somehow melted into folds of cloth and plush.

"Have a seat," Mme. Avenelle said. "I'm sure he'll be here shortly." Then, almost as an afterthought, she reached into her apron pocket. "Might this be yours, then?"

"Yes. Thank you. I'm so careless."

Mother Avenelle's eyes grew wide as she muttered to herself, "It's not really a surprise, for all that," and handed over the handkerchief as if it were a relic.

The linen had been washed and carefully pressed, and Kristina put it in her pocket. "Pardon?"

"Nothing, nothing, dear. You just make yourself comfortable." She backed out of the room and closed the door quietly behind her.

Kristina sat in one of the wingback chairs, wondering how long to wait, twisting her handkerchief decorated with the rough red embroidery of a girl who's just learned to stitch. It was quiet and warm, and her eyes half-closed. _So the box-keeper wasn't surprised to see me here. I'm sure that will be all over the theater tomorrow, too. It's as if these walls have eyes and ears of their own._

Shaking herself out of drowsiness, she looked down at the men on stage below and wondered why she hadn't seen someone in this box before. Her eyes weren't good at distances, but usually she could make out the white shirtfront of a tuxedo, or a lady's shimmery dress. Some box holders even brought small tables with candles, and the champagne glasses sparkled as brightly as the women's jewelry. But this box was always shadowed.

It gave a good view of the stage, too, or would have if she didn't need to use opera glasses. It was strange; the managers could have gotten a good price for this one, but it went unfilled. She walked around, trying out different spots to sit if someone didn't want to be seen. Because the chandelier was always left lighted during performances, the light would come down from the right. If someone sat very close to the left side, and put out the curtain somewhat, he could just sit in the shadow and not be observed.

Kristina knew that most people didn't get a box to be unobserved, though. Instead, they hung out over the balcony edge as far as they could, so they might see each other even more than they want to see the performers on stage. All, that is, except for the cast-iron music lovers who would boo if a singer was just a shade flat.

A curtain rustled, and Kristina whirled around. The door had made no sound when it slid open. Silently the gray-clad man walked up and gave a small bow. She didn't offer her hand, and he didn't reach for it to kiss it. "Mademoiselle," he said. "I'm glad you came. Would you like to sit?"

She took the chair nearest the balcony, and he settled his long frame into the one nearby. "You're on tonight, I noticed. I'll be listening."

"You will? Do you attend the opera often?" He smelled good to her, even better than yesterday, a warm washed scent with just a little bitterness. When he moved it rose off him, and made her wish she'd put on some cologne. Next time, then.

"Almost every night. I don't plan to miss you singing Eudoxie."

Some obscene shouts came from below as a workman dropped a set piece, probably on his foot.

"Where do you sit, Monsieur? You treat this box as if it were yours."

"I use it occasionally, when it's vacant."

"I thought this box was supposed to belong to the theater's ghost."

"I don't know about that. Why would a ghost need a box? He has the whole theater in which to roam."

_That's what I think, too. _ "So you don't believe in the ghost?"

"Why shouldn't I? Doesn't every theater have one? Just like every house and farm have their own guardians?"

"You know about that," she said, astonished. "Not many people know it, or believe it, or would even admit it."

"Most people know only what they see in front of their faces at the moment." His eyes laughed at her, even if his mouth didn't.

Suddenly she wanted to hear him sing. "You have a beautiful voice," she said, hoping he would take the hint.

He nodded his head in thanks.

"Did you study here in Paris?"

"I studied under a _castrato_ in Algiers. He was old and sick, so I didn't get to hear his voice in its prime, but even so, his was one unlike anything in the world. Occasionally a man comes along whose voice is high enough, or a woman comes along whose chest is large and strong enough to breathe out just a hint of what it sounded like. You have a touch of it."

"That's amazing - it's exactly what M. Carnac told me. He's old enough to remember hearing _castrati_ sing in Italy. He said my voice was the closest he'd ever heard, but still was only a faint echo of that sound. It was a horrible practice," she went on. "One of the Swedish queens had her favorite castrato, but to the credit of the French, they never emphasized it."

"Yes, it was horrible. Cassanelli used to say that it took a devil to make a man sing like an angel. He loved the way he sounded, but that didn't keep him from wanting to kill the man who had him 'reduced.'"

"Was he kidnapped?" she asked, thinking of Amelie's magazine stories.

"It was his father who had it done to him. They were poor, so poor the children ate the clay they used to plaster their walls, he told me."

"Dear God," she said, and because he had told it so quietly and with so little emotion, the full horror of it came even closer. Now his eyes were still, like black pools in his too-white face with its strange scars, his long black hair half-hiding them until he smoothed it back. He was so still in the grey diminished auditorium light that he almost faded away into it.

The silence grew heavy on her, and she broke it with the question which everyone who saw him probably wanted to know. "Monsieur, what happened to your face? Was it an accident? Some battle?"

Several heartbeats later, he answered, "I was born this way."

"It looks like a burn scar, yet your eyes and eyebrows aren't affected. Nor your lower cheeks."

"It's odd, because I can't grow a beard there. But it doesn't seem to frighten you."

"Why should it? The man my Pappa and I lived with had a pupil who was very seriously burned on his head by boiling water. He played the piano like another Mozart, Dr. Sibelius said. He lost the ear on one side, as well as most of his hair. I had never seen scars like that and I gaped at him. It didn't even occur to me how he must have seen me staring, or how he might have felt. But my Pappa caught me at it one day and later spoke to me sternly about it. After awhile, I didn't notice it; it was just part of him."

"I've lived with it for thirty-five years, and it's not part of me yet."

"It makes me feel shy to look at you. I don't want to offend."

"It doesn't bother me if you look."

So look she did. The puckered, ridged flesh shone whiter than the surrounding skin as it traveled halfway down his cheek and then stopped abruptly, as if freezing wind had blown on melting candle wax. The skin on his nose was less affected than his upper cheeks, and the skin looked soft and pliable, not like scars at all. "It looks like a mask," she finally said. "A mask of skin that you wear."

"But one that I can't take off."

"Have people been cruel?"

"At times."

All at once she wanted to put her hand on his face, to stroke it and tell him that it was all right, that people were cruel and stupid beyond imagining. But good manners hung between them like a curtain. "Do you have a name, Monsieur?"

He looked surprised, as jarred out of the moment as she was. "It's Niemann, Alberich Niemann."

"Alberich … it means Elf King." His pale face pinked up into a blush, and he looked away. Confused, she put out her hand and said, "So now we can be formally introduced. I'm Kristina Sigurdsdotter."

He looked surprised as he took it. His gentle grip felt rough to her and full of muscle, but it surrounded her own with the lightest of touches. He weighed her hand just as she weighed his, in a caress without movement. Carefully he kept his palm from sliding across hers, but right before he let go, he gave her hand the tiniest squeeze, a flutter of the fingers. At once she again felt his hands from yesterday on her shoulders, testing and measuring them to see if anything was broken. The hot imprint of his hand slowly slid out of hers, too soon.

"In one of the programs you were listed as Kristina Sigurdsson. But that's not right, is it?"

"My father's name was Sigurd Svensson," she sighed. "I can't expect the secretary who makes the programs to keep it all straight."

"Kristina Sigurdsdotter, then." It rolled off of his tongue like music, exactly as it would have been pronounced at home.

She snapped her fingers in astonishment. "You're probably one of five people in all of Paris who can get that right. You even pronounced it right. The ballet girls call me 'Christine,' too, which I don't like either. Backstage they call me 'Svenska,' which is all right, I guess, even if it's not proper Swedish. Better than Christine, anyway."

"Swedish woman," he said. Deep down inside her body something moved, turned over and lay there, waiting. The word came full and rich off his tongue. "Swedish woman," he said again, as if he had just told her something important about herself, if only she had the wit to know what it was. Swedish, full of cold and brightness, and dancing lights in the summer sky. Swedish woman.

"You must know our tongue," she said.

"Only a few words here and there, but I'm good with languages. If I hear one spoken for a few months, I can pick it up. It helped enormously when I lived in Algeria, adrift on a sea of Arabic. Isn't Swedish a lot like German?"

"I don't think so, but some French do, I suppose. I live with Mme. Sibelius. She's a widow. We speak Swedish at home whenever the maid isn't around, because Amelie thinks we're speaking German, and that bothers her terribly. She lost her elder brother in the war against the Prussians. So you know German - is that your nationality?"

"Nobody's ever accused me of speaking French with a German accent. Now who's jumping to conclusions?"

"I didn't grow up in France, so I don't know the different kinds of French accents," Kristina said, slightly affronted.

He leaned forward with those laughing eyes, but his face stayed still and grave, and she wondered if he had less expression, because of his condition. He went on, "There are Frenchmen with German names, and more than the usual number in Alsace, where my father was born. All his relatives are considered Germans now, I suppose. He moved to Rennes as a young man, and that's where I was born and raised."

The stage below was silent, with the men gone out for their mid-morning break. Then there came a crack of footsteps, and Kristina without thinking leaned out over the balcony edge. Monsieur de Carnac's spare black figure moved impatiently back and forth in the dusty grey light. The workers had turned off the limelights, and he was almost invisible in the gloom.

"Mademoiselle Sigurdsson?" he called out to the seemingly empty theater. "They said you were here. Mademoiselle?" Some music sheets rattled in his hand, and he sounded annoyed at the indignity of having to call for a supporting singer. Why couldn't she stay in one place? his tone seemed to ask. "I must speak to you."

She pulled herself up, not sure why she felt slightly guilty. "I probably did something wrong last night," she said to M. Niemann, "and he'll have to tell me about it in all the finest detail. You have to excuse me; I must go now."

Disappointment flickered across his face so swiftly she barely caught it. He offered his arm so that she could rise, and what a shock of pleasure it brought, to touch that warm fluid cloth and feel the flexed strength underneath it once more, and in better circumstances, too. She kept her eyes down, because to look him in the eye would give away the fire that played within her up and down like a dancing flame. A strong arm, a workman's arm, one that reminded her of home, of men who could harness and hitch to the plow a huge Norwegian draft horse in the day, and fly over the strings of the nyckelharp at night. The delicacy of the strong man.

But she had to let go, and so she did.

Fluid and deep he said, "I want to sing with you again. When?"

" Not tomorrow, because I sing tonight. Too many early mornings, and I'll fade away. Why not the day afterwards, if you wish?"

"Mademoiselle Sigurdsson!" the imperious voice called from below. "I know you are up there. Come down at once!"

She rushed out the door, not looking at Alberich. The day after tomorrow, she thought as she ran down the stairs, and the thought of it stretched out before her like an eternity.

(Continued...)


	8. The Empress

**The Empress**

**A/N:** _For those of you interested in a chapter from Alberich's point of view, it's finally here._

After Kristina had left Box 17, Alberich slipped behind the thick red curtain to the small cubbyhole which it concealed. He could still smell her lilac-water scent on his hands, where he'd pulled her over the balcony. _What a hoyden, such a foolish thing to do_, he thought, and yet it made him smile in the dark as he wound his way from the cubbyhole down a long, narrow passage of stairs. He wondered if it had been built into the design of the theater, so that some favored box holder could come and go unseen, perhaps to visit his mistress, or perhaps to simply avoid crowds of sycophants and hangers-on. In any event, it was most convenient.

Down he went, three, then four stories, until he came to a vestibule behind the offices. There he met his head foreman, Yaseen, who with a few laborers were fixing heavy copper in their thick rubber sheaths to the outside of the building.

"There you are," Yaseen said, his large dark eyes still lidded a bit from sleep. "Thought we would have to come find you."

"What, you don't trust yourself to hold the reins on this lot?" Alberich said, the small smile still on his face, as he jerked his head towards the men unloading cable.

"You look happy. Good practice this morning?"

"Beyond good."

"You're later than usual, though. And you have about you the air of a man to whom something very interesting has happened."

Yaseen had learned French late, in a small Algerian school which had shocked French society by teaching "the natives." He still sounded stilted, but his eyes were warm.

"If anything interesting happens, you will be the first to know."

At midday, Yaseen and Alberich quietly talked over their cold chicken pie, as the men ate and smoked. "We're almost done, except for one snag." Alberich said. "Except for that cursed chandelier."

"It's folly," Yaseen answered. "All this work, tearing into walls, running wires, changing fixtures. And yet they won't let us electrify the chandelier."

"I was listening to Gicard the other day, when he came back with some of his young men friends from lunch. It's the wives, he said. They won't let them do it."

Yaseen laughed a little and said, "What have wives to do with it?"

"Some of the wives of the major contributors complained about the chandelier. Electric lights were all well and good for powder rooms or hallways, they said, but it would disadvantage their daughters to be put under such glare. Not to mention the ladies themselves. It is foolish, indeed. At some point the managers will want an electric chandelier, and they'll have to pay quite a bit more when they do decide to get one." Alberich hesitated. "I wish they would let us finish it." _And I could be here longer, too. Another few weeks. A month. It seems so close, and yet it could still slip from my grasp, like she almost did this morning. _ "Perhaps I could speak with them again. It is in the contract, after all."

"They said they would pay anyway. They just don't want it done."

Alberich sighed. "The ladies said the same thing about gas lights forty, fifty years ago, that it made them look less beautiful than candlelight."

"Ladies haven't changed," Yaseen remarked. "Even if the lights have."

The days were getting colder and shorter, and when the sun touched the edge of the buildings around the Eclectic Theater, Alberich sent his men home. From around the corner he heard the loud creak of iron against stone, the opening of the doors of the theater's stable. Another sense of responsibility weighed on him, and in he went. The huge double doors were now open to the early winter air, and a few of the horses stamped restlessly when he came in. There were no carriages to be hitched at this time of the evening, and the regular stable hands were nowhere to be seen.

Instead the little man was there, the pudgy older one who sometimes came in when the stable hands were off somewhere else, who knew where. His cap was thrown carelessly onto a nearby straw bale, its red feather askew, and his bald head gleamed in the setting sun. He whistled, and the horses immediately quieted down.

"Here for a ride?" he said to Alberich.

"I don't think so. Just came down to think."

"Horses are good for that." The black Friesian in his stall heard Alberich, and neighed. "Sure you won't consider otherwise? When your ass is in the saddle, it quickens the brain."

Alberich laughed. "It's hard to take a horse up to Montmartre."

"Ah," the little man said. "You do have some thinking to do, then."

The little man moved with silky precision as he groomed, watered, and spread straw. He went into the Friesian's stall, and Alberich looked away from the black horse. Guilt, guilt everywhere. So many things had to be made right, and he knew where he had to start.

"No lights to put in today?" the little man asked.

"We're almost done. For the remaining rooms, we're waiting on ceramic tubes. They come from England, and either the Channel has gotten wider, or the boat decided to take the long way around to Marseilles, because they're not here yet."

"He's disappointed," the little man said, gesturing towards the horse.

"I know," Alberich said, folding his long arms over his chest. "But I have something to do tonight."

The little man nodded but said nothing, and Alberich headed out to the north, steeling himself for the walk up the Montmartre hill.

He had arrived in Paris to the birth of a new republic, to a France finally starting to scar over from the wounds of a war ten years in the past. With gems sewn into his clothes, a workman's cap upon his head, and with his father's blessing, he had boarded the train to Paris from Rennes. Alphonse had said in his low gruff monotone, "You'll do well, boy. There's much work there. If it weren't for your mother, I'd go as well." Then without a look back, he was gone from the platform.

Alberich's first act upon arriving in Paris had been to rent a strongbox at one of the Rothschild's banks, into which he deposited the jewels and gold coins which represented his share from his and his father's Algerian days. His second was to look for work. Paris was still one massive hub of breaking down and building up. He had watched, fascinated, as centuries-old buildings came down in an afternoon; as streets were widened into spacious boulevards; as teeming masses of the displaced poor roamed from one _fauborg_ to the next, only to be displaced by the next wave of demolition.

At first, self-conscious as always about the serpentine scars on his face, he had worried that for him there would be no work. Those fears proved baseless, as Paris cried out for anyone who could lay stone upon stone, and far more anyone who could design buildings and houses. The newly rich _haute-monde_ demanded great town homes in the Second Empire style, and the new republic demanded massive public buildings, elaborate monuments, and broad boulevards as tokens of their power and influence.

Around him Alberich had gathered men whom few others would hire; Algerians, ex-convicts, men who needed a second chance. He used a small portion of his earnings to set up a small architectural contracting business, and almost at once was asked to build town homes for a doctor and a banker. They favored the clean lines and ample light which he adopted from the Arabic houses, as well as liking Alberich's excellent plumbing and sewer systems. When Alberich approached the Seine Department it was with references in hand, and so he managed to obtain a few modest contracts accordingly, including the one to modify the Eclectic Theater for the installation of electric lights.

At first, the thought of building a crew had filled Alberich with apprehension. The lines on his face made him look older than he was, and like his father before him, time had already streaked his black hair with threads of silver. The illusion of age helped, though, with the rough men who became his workers. Their first impression of him was one of fierce sternness, especially when he used his deepest, most resonant voice. But soon his men came to trust him, and many of the roughest, with the most obscure histories, proved themselves to be the most loyal of workers. It amused Alberich to make it a criterion for employment that a man should look without wincing or questioning upon his strange face. At that time he had an office carved out of a section of a warehouse near the Belleville region of Paris, which he had designed for a wealthy Scotsman named McLeod. Alberich put up a flimsy wall so that he could sleep on one side, and on the other side he kept his records, his notes, blueprints, and where he interviewed his future men. Whenever he brought a potential man onto the crew, Alberich sat with him in that tiny, stuffy room for several minutes, unspeaking, looking him full and directly in the face. If the man twisted his hat, stammered, or fidgeted, Alberich sat even longer. It was remarkable how long a silence of even a few minutes could last, especially when Alberich stared calmly and resolutely, saying nothing.

The kind of man he wanted would say after a time something like, "Tell me what you need me to do, Monsieur," without flinching or stammering nervously. Those men were hard to find, but find them Alberich did. He never treated them as inferiors or social outcasts; paid them more than the going rate; provided clear and specific instructions, and was rewarded by a consistency and dedication the envy of other builders around him, who believed that insecurity, low wages, and verbal abuse would bring their workers into line.

Those were his days. But the nights were long, and so he walked the streets of Paris, or sat late in his office playing the violin.

Light, air, and ventilation - those were his areas of expertise, refined in the hot dust of Algiers, so in demand there when it came to designing a hotel or villa for some French official. After a year in Paris, Alberich and his men started building a worker housing project, as well as two new town homes, and then there was the Eclectic Theater work to begin later that year. Six foremen managed Alberich's sites, and one was an exceptionally talented self-taught architect from Algiers named Ali Yaseen, who one day in early spring brought him a most peculiar note.

It was lavender and heavily scented, with a delicate calligraphic hand. Alberich had never before in his life received a note like that from a lady, and so with intense curiosity opened it.

Dear Monsieur, etc. it began, and he sat back in his wooden office chair with with surprise, so that the wheels rolled noisily across the smooth wooden warehouse floor. It was indeed from a woman, but she was no lady. Instead, she was a woman of business herself who ran a _maison-des-rendevouz_ in the notorious northern Parisian neighborhood known as La Pigalle, one that the respectable people of Paris pretended did not exist, while at the same time frequenting enthusiastically.

"I have been unable to secure a competent contractor for significant plumbing problems in my business, until your man Yaseen mentioned that I might approach you, as his employer, for a bid," she wrote. "I will pay you twice the going rate, if you would be so kind as to prepare a bid."

Consumed with curiosity, Alberich had walked over to the worker apartment site, where Yaseen was busy criticizing a mason for incorrectly aligning some quoins. When Alberich showed him the letter, Yaseen looked embarrassed at first, but then said quickly, "I thought you would help her. No one else will because they say she is a bad woman, and they are afraid if they work with her, they will be shamed. I am sorry, Monsieur, now you probably think I am a bad man, too, for knowing of her."

"How long did you look for work in Paris before I hired you?"

"For almost a year. I feared being thrown into prison, because I had no money to travel back to Algiers."

"Why do you think I hired you?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "You have told me many times. Because you thought I was the best."

"That's right. We are builders. There may be good and bad people, but when there are empty lots, we put a building there. When there are bad drains, we fix them. If hallways are dark, we light them up. Tomorrow we will go together and look at the situation at Madame Alexandrine's building."

The next day, when the two men had arrived at the small grey building wedged in between two monstrous limestone apartments, Alberich tried to hide his shock from Yaseen. He knew that he paid Yaseen well, but where did Yaseen get the money to frequent this house? Alberich had wondered if they would arrive at some run-down dump, with half-naked and abandoned women hanging out of windows, but the smooth façade with its tightly-pulled curtains reminded him of a boarding school for young ladies of good family, the kind which dotted so many Parisian streets.

His surprise had extended further when an elderly maid let them in to a discreetly furnished drawing room, where Madame Alexandrine rose to her full height in greeting. He had expected some blowsy old courtesan, but she was trim of figure and of sweeping height. The soft sag under her square, almost masculine jaw told that she was in her early forties. Her olive skin was clear, and her black hair was swept up into a loose chignon pinned with a butterfly made of mother-of-pearl.

She shook hands with a firm, business-like grip, and gave Alberich's face only the most cursory of inspections. The maid poured out tea, and they spent the next hour in animated conversation about Paris, the building program, Alberich's contracting firm, and her many sewage and drain problems. Alberich kept watching her and Yaseen for any signs of familiarity, any clues as to how he had met this unusual woman, but Yaseen kept his face an impartial mask, and Madame Alexandrine gave no sign of knowing him at all.

Then, when the conversation came to a lull, and it was clear that a decision would have to be made one way or another, she looked at Alberich full in the face, and said, "I won't mince words with you. I don't want you to work for me under any shade of pretension. Come see my house, and if you disapprove, you may leave, with no recrimination."

Alberich couldn't help himself. A slow flush spread from his neck up across his face, and he hated that, because it made the scar-like lines show up in flares of red marks like whiplashes. But there was nothing to be done about it.

She noticed. "Monsieur Niemann, you look as if you had never been inside this type of house before. With all respect, you must be one of the few men in Paris who have not." Then she gave a small laugh, but not a cruel one, and her strong jaw seemed to soften a bit. "Unless you walk on the other side of the street, perhaps?" Alberich gave her a blank look, and out of the corner of his eye caught Yaseen fighting a smile.

Mme. Alexandrine caught it as well, and subdued a smile herself. "I didn't think so." She then went on, "Let me explain how we do things here. Gentlemen come to us during the afternoons to visit with ladies. Some of the ladies are in my employment, and they dress and act like the bourgeoisie whom the gentlemen prefer. My patrons don't want someone fragrant with the whiff of the streets. They would prefer to think that some neglected wife has taken a fancy to them, without the risk of encountering an irate husband.

"Others of my ladies are taken out by our clients to balls, to diplomatic functions, to the theater or opera, and return the next morning. And then there are so many married ladies in Paris, neglected by husbands who would rather spend time at the Bourse or at the Hippodrome, or with their own mistresses. Here these ladies can meet a gentleman without the messiness of a protracted affair, especially when the lady herself has so much to lose."

Alberich looked over at Yaseen, who refused to meet his glance. No surprise there. Yaseen had a comely face and haunting dark eyes, which doubtless proved attractive to the "neglected wives" of Paris.

Now a look of recognition did pass between Alexandrine and Yaseen, and knowledge seemed to pass between the two of them. Alexandrine said, "Some men have a genuine skill, as finely crafted as architecture or building. If a lady makes an appointment for an afternoon, I find a man to accommodate her, one whom I know I can trust to be kind, to ease her loneliness for a few hours. Some men in their generosity think that a woman mellows like wine as she ages, and that her ability to experience love increases with her years. I value a man such as that."

Alberich cleared his throat. "A man should strive to attain the heights of any craft he practices." He had to fight every impulse to chuckle as Yaseen's shoulders visibly relaxed.

She took that as encouragement to go on. "So to make a long story short, you can see this is a refined house, but we are in a critical state here."

Each floor had several large common bathrooms with tubs. Alberich expected lurid Oriental decorations, but most of the rooms were demurely furnished. The few women who passed by in the corridors wore day wraps or morning dresses as respectable as those worn by ladies receiving guests early in the day. They looked with curiosity at the two men as they passed from floor to floor. Some smiled, but most looked on quietly and said nothing. No one stared at Alberich's face.

Alberich had seen immediately that the water tanks and wastewater drains were entirely insufficient. He sent Yaseen back to the building site he had been supervising, and went with Mme. Alexandrine into her parlor. All the chairs were small and skirted. He looked about for one not too close to the floor, and settled on a narrow wingback chair, stretching his long legs out, bumping into the ottoman in the meantime. Alexandrine looked at him, waiting for him to start. She didn't chatter like so many women. Instead of darting for kerchief or fan, her hands remained at rest on her dark serge skirt. Soft green light filtered through the gauze curtain, and the cool, finely scented air reminded Alberich that it was early spring.

Finally he said with a dry throat, "There's significant work to be done here, and there will be a great expense. But I don't expect twice the rate."

For the first time he saw her composure shudder. "You must understand, Monsieur Niemann, that no other contractor I wrote even answered my letters. We are considered the scum on the top of the pond that is Paris, but if our pond is so filthy, why do so many swim in it? Had I not been able to find someone to do this work, I would have had to close my house. There are no pimps here, no men to brutalize the girls and take their earnings. I have a doctor come in every week. No one is sick in my house. God knows where my girls would have gone. I will pay you whatever it takes."

"It's not necessary to explain yourself to me. I will send a bid over to you tomorrow morning. You may examine it and if you think it is fair, sign it and send it back. If you wish, we can begin work in two weeks, and Yaseen will be your foreman."

Three days later, the signed bid sat on his desk, and he began ordering supplies and assigning men to the Alexandrine job. Two refused to go, claiming that their faith forbade them from entering a house of ill repute, and Alberich summarily sacked them.

Yaseen had divided his time between the worker's apartments and Madame Alexandrine's house, and then, after a fall from a scaffold wrenched his shoulder, Alberich found himself supervising the final work on the small grey building of secret indiscretions.

Sometimes she would send her maid to bring him tea, and sometimes she would come down to talk with him as the men dug or laid new pipe. She was born in Marseilles, he discovered, the illegitimate child of a French carpet importer and his Moroccan maid. Taken with her beauty, charm, and intelligence, her father sent her to Paris to be educated. The war with Prussia and his own mismanagement caused the his business to fail, and at a far too young age, Alexandrine found herself alone in Paris with neither money nor dowry, with only her strong face, long black hair, and shrewd intelligence for assets. This house was her income, her refuge, and her stronghold. It was all she had.

Only a few days remained on the job. The fullness of spring had just come and gone, replaced by the glory and heat of summer. The evening grew dark, and although Alberich sent the men home, he stayed to finish and give everything the final check. He stood in the hallway between the kitchen and the rear door of the building, making a few final notes his little account book, when he heard a movement from behind. There she was, wrapped in a dark blue shawl, with an enigmatic expression on her face.

"Monsieur Niemann," she said, "I have offered you enough tea to fill the Seine. Come to the parlor and let me pour you a real drink while we go over the final bill. Normally I close the kitchen after supper, but I can rouse the cook and have her fix a plate for you, if you like."

His mouth went dry, and he didn't think he could eat anything. She had always been formal up till now, almost chilly, even. "Just a glass, thank you."

She took his arm and led him into the front room, all pale-grey paint and dusky-rose upholstered chairs, where the gaslights were turned down low. After pouring a stiff glass of whiskey for Alberich, and one for herself as well, they went over the final accounting of the work. The whiskey slid down his throat like hot velvet, and its warmth soothed and relaxed the continuous inner spring of tension inside his chest.

Alexandrine signed a bank draft and handed it to him. He took it, but she didn't return to her own chair. Silence fell after that. Casting about for something to fill the gap, Alberich said, "Everything seems quiet tonight."

"Most of my visitors come in the afternoon. My few girls are out for the evening, and the gentlemen who want their company usually take them to private parties or their clubs. So we have some peace now."

She placed her hand gently on his arm. He stared at it for a moment, feeling like a fool. Then he began to shake like a greyhound.

She looked at him with straightforward dark eyes. Alberich recognized the look - it was the same he would give a prospective laborer as he took the measure of the man, watching him and saying nothing. He shifted, cleared his throat a few times, and wondered if the workers he hired had felt as uncomfortable as he did now, when he sat there staring at them in silence. Only now it was he who shifted and stammered under the gaze.

She let it go on another few seconds, and then said, "Monsieur Niemann, I think you do not have a woman at present, am I right?"

Alberich looked away from her, his face a sheet of flame. Embarrassment made him want to flee, but the whiskey and warmth of that upholstered room held him down, as did the light pressure of her hand.

"It is no shame," she said in the same hypnotic tone. "Someday you will find someone to love you. But in the meantime, I would like to invite you upstairs with me, if you wish."

Far away, a girl's laugh tinkled, followed by another, deeper response. Alberich sat mute.

She hesitated, trying to interpret his silence. "It's on the house, Monsieur. I have not been with a man for some time now. I have a business to run, after all. I am not offering you love. That you will have to find on your own. But I will offer you my companionship, and perhaps even a little wisdom, for tonight."

Alberich swallowed hard. "You are not concerned about my face? More often than not, if I tried to buy a woman, many would not have me. They thought I had the pox."

She rolled her eyes. "Did I not tell you we have a doctor in here weekly? He has told me everything about the pox and how to recognize it. My girls would not stay so well otherwise. Perhaps you have been told differently, Monsieur, but I do not think you have the pox that comes from a tainted birth."

"Yet my face has always been so, from my birth on."

She touched the ripples on his cheek gently and said, "I give you my night, Monsieur, if you wish," and held out her hand.

Alberich took it, and they ascended the back stairs to Madame Alexandrine's bedroom. Before going in, Alberich removed his dusty, grimy work boots, and handed his jacket to the silent maid who had followed them up the back steps.

"Tell Ondine that I am not to be disturbed until morning. Also, please run my bath, and bring a robe for Monsieur Niemann."

The large bedroom window opened to the soft dark blue of a

Parisian twilight. Gaslight flickered faint and low in a small cut-glass fixture. The furniture was plain, and under his feet yielded a soft wool carpet embellished with elaborate red and blue flowers.

"It was one of my father's," she said.

On her dresser sat the photograph of a girl, dressed in a light-colored uniform. He glanced at it, and she said, "My daughter, now sixteen. She studies with the sisters. She doesn't know how her mother manages to pay the tuition. Someday, no doubt, she will ask, but not before I marry her off, God willing." She gave a deep sigh.

"Perhaps she will understand someday." He watched her without trying to stare. He had expected her to unbutton her dress, or do something else overt, but instead she took from her dresser a little wine velvet bag from a gilt box.

"Your fortune, perhaps, while we wait for the bath?" When he didn't answer, she went on, "Perhaps not a whole long-drawn out fortune, then. Perhaps just one card, to get the feel of what's coming up, of what's most important."

A sudden rush of fear hit him in the chest. "No," he said, a little too sternly and too loud.

It must have surprised her, because she looked around with a little shock. "But why not? Perhaps you think it is just a silly amusement. Then, why not be amused?"

"I don't think it's an amusement. Just no, that's all." He didn't want her to even pull the cards out of their bag. The wild idea brushed over him that if she took her cards out, they would fly up and flay him, leaving him entirely exposed before her.

A light grew in her eyes. "Monsieur, you are not religious, are you?"

"Religious?"

"You know, a practicing Catholic?"

"Not at all," he answered, not knowing where she was going with this.

"It would explain a few things, that's all." She paused for a moment, then put the bag of cards back in their dresser. "It's nothing," she said, and he smelled a low, subtle perfume as she came up to him. Undoing the buttons of his shirt, she loosened it enough just to put her hands in, and rubbed the muscles of his arms and shoulders so that they hung slack and relaxed.

As she rubbed out the tension, his mind wandered. This was nothing like his Algerian youth, when the other engineers with whom Alphonse worked had thought it fun to bring him to one of the brothels which catered to Europeans. He was barely 18, and while he had grown a beard since fifteen, outside of his hot, slick dreams, he thought about women hardly at all. The men even joked about it in front of Alphonse, whom Alberich in his shame and confusion half-hoped would stop them or forbid him to go. Alphonse, though, had simply looked blankly at them, not understanding the joke, and went back to drawing up his plans for a hotel gas system.

Then, in front of the other inmates, in a loud sharp voice, she had said, _No, not him. It's bad enough I have to take money from Frenchmen, but that one? Forget it._

Later Alberich had heard that the man who ran the brothel had whipped the woman for refusing to serve him. For months he couldn't walk past that street without the sickness of shame coming after him like a chorus of despair, telling him that no one would ever want him, that he would die alone and childless, and was good for nothing to a woman but pain.

There was no fear or pain, though, neither in Alexandrine's touch nor her face. When the maid rapped on the inner bedroom door to announce the bath, he let Alexandrine take him by the hand into a swirl of steam and heat and fragrance.

Over the weeks and months which had followed, he found himself not so much thinking of her as feeling her on his skin. Sometimes he would go to her, but only if there was work to be done on her house first. Other times she would summon him with one of those small scented notes in her curlicued hand. He always went, to bask in release like a lizard sitting on a rock in the August sun. She never charged him, but then again, he didn't send her bills for the work on her ever-crumbling pipes or the repair of her ancient gutters, either.

Now, Alberich's legs ached as he climbed up the hill of Montmartre. The sun had set entirely behind it, and gaudy lanterns festooned the windows of shops and cafes beneath the glow of streetlamps. He turned off the main street onto quieter, twistier ones, where the houses grew greyer and more silent, until he came to what seemed to be the greyest of all.

Since the evening was early, the windows were lit up, and he could hear the sound of a piano even while on the street. He stood for a moment outside, not sure whether he should use the front door or not. A stocky gentleman in a dark evening coat brushed by him, pretending not to see Alberich's workman's jacket, the loose hat pulled over his long dark hair. As the front door cracked open, piano music spilled out onto the street, and the bright sway of skirts revealed some kind of party in progress.

Since when did Alexandrine have parties? Alberich shrugged, almost left, then pulled himself back and went around to the back door.

The maid let him in. "Oh, monsieur, we weren't expecting you. It is mad around here tonight."

He said nothing, but sat heavily down at the big wooden table. Was she going to make this easier for him than it felt right now? Another maid brushed through the kitchen, exchanging her empty tray of canapés for a full one. No one offered him a drink, so he helped himself to a tumbler of Alexandrine's ordinary whiskey, the kind she kept in the kitchen in a tall cabinet.

The piano stopped, then started again, and a woman began to sing. Alberich thought of Kristina's warm rolling tones. This girl sounded like a parrot, and an old one at that. The maids came in and out, ignoring him. He finished his glass of whiskey and thought of pouring another, but hesitated. It wasn't her fault that he sat alone in her kitchen, listening to the revelry outside. She had to earn a living, just as he did. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

The door opened again, but this time there was no swoop of hurried skirts. He smelled her before he saw her, as her soft scent, not too sweet, wafted into the kitchen with her.

"Monsieur Niemann," Alexandrine said. "I am so sorry. This private reception, it just goes on and on. I thought they would have been off to the Opera by now."

"I shouldn't have come. I've intruded."

"I didn't expect you, true."

He stood up, reaching for his hat.

"Wait," Alexandrine said, and her eyes darted to the door. He could see the calculations flying through her mind. "Ondine," she called.

The maid came at once, but she no longer wore a dress of sober black with the sparkling white apron. Instead, she was dressed in a soft grey dress that revealed her bosom as much as the translucent scarf concealed it. Instead of curtseying, she said, "Yes, Madame?"

"Attend to our guests. Serve the gentlemen another round of drinks and make sure each gets put on the right bill. No need to send them off. If they miss the first act, they'll go upstairs and retire, in order to be fresh for after intermission."

Ondine gave a little half-curtsey and vanished.

"She's gotten a promotion," Alberich remarked.

"Indeed. She's my hostess now." Her eyes grew a little sad and distant. "I won't be able to run this place forever."

She looked a little smaller, a little thinner than when he had first met her, and a little more tired as well. All he could do was to twist his hat, not wanting to put it on, but not knowing if he should stay, either.

"You've never come on your own," she remarked, after a long pause.

There was no good way to do this. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. Perhaps if that infernal noise wasn't coming from the parlor; if the maids weren't lurking at the door, listening, perhaps then he could speak and not just stand there like a block of uncarved stone.

"Let's go upstairs," Alexandrine said.

It broke his paralytic spell, and he followed her up the narrow maids' staircase. He felt too large and too dusty for her delicate room. In his customary chair he sat, and she came to his feet, crouching on the ottoman.

"What's wrong?"

At first he didn't answer. Then he said, "I want you to get your cards."

It must have been the last thing she expected, because she looked up in surprise. "I didn't think you held with those."

"Whether I hold with them or not isn't the point. I want to see what they say."

"Do you?" she asked, not moving. "I always thought you avoided them, because they were untrue."

"It's not untruth which I fear. Anyway, don't you read my fortune when I'm not here, anyway?"

She stiffened a little. "Why should I? It would be like peeping in windows."

This was going all wrong. "I'm sorry. It's just that …"

She put her hand on his, and it was small and cool. "One card, perhaps."

He didn't say anything, and so she took his silence for consent. Taking her cards out of the bag, she went through each card carefully, dividing the deck into two piles, and then picked up the smaller set. The cards were larger than an ordinary deck, frayed on the edges, and looked very old. They were patterned on the back with some intricate arabesque.

"We'll only use the trumps," and she shuffled them not by flipping them as the workmen shuffled their cards, but by moving them gently around on the vanity table top, in all directions.

"Take one," she said. "Just one, and show it to me exactly the way you've picked it up. Don't turn it upside-down."

The cards spread out below him, their backs a riot of blue and red twists. Touching them was like dipping your fingers into some dark, vaguely threatening water, where you couldn't see the bottom, and had no idea what lurked beneath.

"Close your eyes," she said. "It might help."

So in the dark he felt for the first card which his fingers could reach. He handed it to her, seeing on its glossy surface the blur of a woman's face, a throne, a shield and a scepter.

"The Empress, heads up," she said.

"I don't understand."

"I am not she in the card. I am not your Empress. As long as you understand that. But there will be one, make no mistake, Alberich."

She had never used his first name before.

"Elf-Emperor," she went on. "You see? The cards may be obscure, but they never lie. There is a great love coming for you. She will be your Empress, and you her Emperor."

"You mock me," he said in a dry voice. Only one tumbler of whiskey, and yet his head swam.

"Never."

Guilt washed over him. Of course she wasn't. She never had. She had always been generous and kind. "Alexandrine," he started, but she put her hand on his mouth.

"Elf-King, it's not necessary. The cards tell me why you came here tonight."

At once he realized how much he would miss this room, this rose-covered carpet, Alexandrine's cool hands on his body. Yet even as he sat there, the entire room seemed to recede into the past, as if the evening were already over.

As if he had already left her.

She stood, and never had she seemed so far away. With force of habit he stood too, even though none of Paris would admit that she was a lady one should stand up for. She was tall but her eyes came just to his chin, as she leaned close into him.

"I am going downstairs now. You know the way out. But before you go, I want you to look around. Take something, anything with you. It may be of value, or not. You know where I keep my brooches, my earrings. Or it may be as small as a hatpin, or a kerchief. I trust you, Elf-King, to take something that is right. To take what it is that you need."

Then up on her toes she stretched, and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek, not quite a sister's kiss, but not a lover's either, and then another one. He kissed her back on her own smooth cheeks, and then with a swirl of her smoke-pale skirts, she was gone. Over the room he looked, not wanting to take anything of hers, not because he didn't want it, but because he felt he had no right to anything of hers.

Then he glanced down at the mess of cards on the low table, which she had neglected to put away. The Empress alone lay revealed on the top. He picked her up, and without a second thought, put her in his pocket, and headed down the stairs of Madame Alexandrine's house for the last time.


	9. Breath Unchained

**Breath Unchained**

Kristina practically ran to the Eclectic Theater on the morning of their meeting. The empty apartment suffocated her with its gaudy rose-papered walls, and she didn't want to run into Amelie with all her questions. Instead of going to the auditorium, she went straight to Box 17.

The door was open but the inner curtain was drawn, and Mme. Avenelle was nowhere to be seen. Kristina knocked timidly on the open panel, and heard a soft, "Come in," from within the box.

He rose to greet her, saying "Brava for last night. You brought tears to their eyes, I'm sure."

"You're kind. I thought of you listening for me. Were you?

"I was," he said.

She felt the need to prattle. "It's not Rachel, I'm afraid, but it's a good role for me, lots of coloratura, and up and down the scales. I don't expect prima roles, anyway, not yet. I felt so sorry for poor Eudoxie, she only had a brief moment of happiness, and then her husband betrayed her. It's not that I know that from experience - I've never had a husband, but it's almost as if I felt like I had. That was stupid, I know. Sometimes I still can't believe I'm really here."

He sat, waiting.

"What shall we do? I don't see your violin."

"Come down to the Singers' Salon with me; I have something to play for you."

"How do you know about that one? No one ever goes there. Do you work here?"

"I do. This is one of the last large theaters to be electrified, and it's my contract."

"When you're not serenading us."

"I'm ahead of schedule," he said.

Had she offended him with a hint that he might have been slacking off? "So that's what you do."

"Not entirely. My father taught me how to carve and lay stone. We built modern buildings for the French in Algiers. Later I learned about plumbing and gas lines. Electricity is new, but there are books. Then I was a builder, in Paris, before getting the electric contract for the theater here."

"You play and sing so beautifully - why aren't you a musician?"

"I don't think people would want to look at my face."

His warm eyes turned sad, and a great tenderness blossomed inside her for him. "I told you about Wilhelm, the student I knew who was burned. His mother didn't want him studying with Dr. Sibelius. She said no one would put him onstage; that he'd have to wear a mask or something over his head."

He turned away as if her words struck him like a blow, and now there was real pain on his face, not just in his eyes.

"M. Niemann, I'm so sorry. I've said something thoughtless."

"It's all right," he said. "Please go on."

"But his father kept sending him to lessons. 'Even if he never goes onstage,' he said, 'I want him to know the heart and soul of music.' I think that was very beautiful."

"Did he ever perform?"

"I don't know. We moved to Paris. I don't know what happened to him." _He's so still. The very air around him stops when he doesn't speak. He barely moves, unlike most people who fidget, or stretch, or have to fill up the space with some noise or motion. He makes me want that kind of stillness, too._

"Let's go see about the Singer's Salon," he said after a moment.

The theater seemed dark and uninhabited for that hour of the morning, and they met no one on their way down, not even a maid or charwoman. To Kristina's surprise, the mirrored room was unlocked. Alberich seated himself at the grand piano and played a few chords, his thick hands with their strong fingers agile on the keys. He slowly transitioned into the betrayed Eudoxie's poignant aria, "_Mon doux seigneur et maître_," and Kristina leapt in to join him.

"When do you sing it again?" he asked when they were done.

"Tomorrow night."

"Sing it like that, and they'll forget that Rachel boils in oil."

Her breath caught in her throat. To get a bit of air, she sat across the mirrored room on a little green velvet bench. He turned back to the keys, and played a sonatina, tender and moving.

"It's beautiful. What is it? Who is the composer?"

"It's mine. Beethoven had his _Für__Elise_, but this is _Für__Kristina_."

"You must write it down. Not because you named it after me, but so you don't forget it."

"I don't forget music. Sometimes that's a curse; a lot of music you want to forget. But if you'd like me to, I'll transcribe a score for you," and his face glowed pink with pleasure as he said it.

Her face glowed, too. "It makes me wish I could play piano better than I can."

"No one can do everything. I think you need a tutor, because to me, as an amateur, your voice doesn't sound completely formed. I know mine isn't. But with the right guidance, you could be incomparable."

"Monsieur De Carnac - he's the musical director here - he has said the same thing. Practically every rehearsal he nags me, 'Have you found a teacher yet? We're just protecting our investment here, you know.' I am supposed to be interviewing teachers, and at some point I'm going to have to find one. But since you learned from a castrato, and so few have done that, do you think you could show me some of what you know? Your own voice is a pleasure to listen to - not an "opera voice," which in some ways is an advantage, and it has a wonderful quality."

"I've never been a teacher," he replied thoughtfully, "so I don't know how well I'd do at it."

"But your father taught you?"

"Yes, he did. Both stone and music."

"I would pay you," she began, but then stopped as his still-rosy face turned a deep red, this time with profound embarrassment, she flushed brightly as well.

"Never. Please, I couldn't think of taking money," and he stood up from the piano bench with such an abrupt movement that she almost fell backwards. The bench skidded out behind him and he turned quickly to grab it before it tipped over. No wonder he had pulled her up so effortlessly over the balcony.

She remembered having already made this mistake with Amelie. "No, of course you won't take money. How stupid of me. I've been performing less than a year, and the opera has ruined me already." He stood stiffly, still red-faced, saying nothing. "Look, let's do this. I can't meet you at this early hour after the nights I have performances. But on other days I can. I'm sure you'll be a wonderful teacher. I can imitate well; my voice teachers all said so. You show me what to do, and I'll follow. We can come here to the Singers' Salon; nobody ever uses it during the day. If it's locked, we can meet one of the ballet practice rooms; they all have pianos, but not as nice as this one. Please say you will?"

"A voice like yours requires someone professional," he said slowly. "Sopranos' careers have ended without the right care. I wouldn't know what to do."

"Oh, I will find a fat old Italian eventually, M. Niemann. But this would be different, because you'd just be showing me what you know. I've been caring for my voice since age fourteen. That's why I don't stay out late after performances, or drink too much champagne, or sit in the billiard rooms with all the cigar smokers."

"It would please Cassinelli if I did this," he finally said.

"It would please me, too, M. Niemann," and his face, which had calmed down, pinked up again. "But who is Cassinelli?"

"My late teacher. The castrato I mentioned to you."

"So he's passed, then."

"Almost fifteen years now." His deep eyes were soft in his face. His smile was a small half-flicker which played briefly around his mouth and then flew away.

_Someday I'll make you smile_. _I'll draw down into you like a well, and when I bring up the bucket there'll be a smile, a real one. It's a promise._

* * * * * *

Over the next few weeks, Alberich and Kristina fell into a pattern. When she sang late the night before, she slept in late the next day. But on free nights she lay awake trembling in anticipation, knowing that the next morning she would find him at the piano in the Singer's Salon, lingering over his plangent, dissonant chords.

To keep from being distracted by hunger, she carried a roll or piece of baguette in her pocket, and munched it on the way. Or she would eat her morning bread and watch him sway as he made the piano sing. He would play until she finished her soft roll or baguette, and each morning she ate a little more slowly, just to watch those slow, rhythmic movements of head and hand and fingers, as well as to hear those sweet, sad tunes. What came out of him on those mornings always surprised her, whether it was a folk tune from Romany or Bretagne, or something of his own invention.

That morning, he sang an Irish melody that flowed back and forth like water poured out of a fountain.

"How can you hold your breath that long?" she asked when he finished.

"It's easier to learn when you're younger. When Cassinelli was an older boy, they spent hours every day on their breath - holding it, learning to control it, how to expand their chests. As they grew, their chests grew far beyond the capacity of most adult men. I will never sound like him; his chest was monumental, and not flattened out, but almost entirely round, like a barrel. But he did the best with me that he could."

"I want to learn to do that, too. You could teach me."

"Well, there's a problem, Mlle. Sigurdsdotter. Your corset."

She blushed and wondered, is this when the seduction begins? "My corset? What has that to do with anything?"

"It holds in your chest and stomach. You can't fully expand. You'll never get all the breath in that you need, and if your chest can't grow and expand, you'll never get that deep richness of sound."

"So no other singer knows this? Every singer I know wears a corset."

"Have you ever tried singing without one?"

She stood there by the piano, nonplussed. "I'll try it later, in private."

"If you come tomorrow wearing a corset, there's no point in showing you Cassinelli's breathing exercises. It's up to you. Wear your overcoat if you're concerned about modesty," he said straightforwardly.

The next morning Kristina wore one of Anneke's thick, shapeless overcoats and kept it on. He said nothing, but smiled the first real smile she'd seen so far. It started in his eyes and lit them from within. Then it crept downward and played over his mouth, twisting it into a wry shape.

Inside the wool coat she suddenly felt very warm.

"The boys had to learn to breathe for months before being allowed to sing a single note," he said.

So while the two still sang together for pleasure, day after day Kristina breathed, or thought of breathing, or relaxed into breathing.

"I feel like an oboe," she remarked one morning, when Anneke's hot coat confined her more than it ever had, and she had just finished a particularly long and tough exhale. "Did you ever try to play one? The first oboist teased me one evening, handing it to me to see what kind of noise I'd make. You blow and blow, and nothing comes out but a little ducky squawk and you feel like you're going to fall over."

He chuckled lightly. Then all around Kristina the room started to turn a light green, then a darker forest green, and when she opened her eyes again, she found herself looking at the painted portraits of the ladies on the ceiling. Alberich's big shoulders hunkered over her, and his irregular face hovered above them like the cratered moon.

She felt slightly sick from the faint, and when she started to gag, he rolled her over swiftly onto her side. "The coat has to come off," he said, and as she struggled to a sitting position, still wobbly in the head, he helped her out of the heavy wool garment.

"I'm so sorry," she said, when she'd caught her breath. She reached for the coat.

"It's why you fainted," he said.

"Please, M. Niemann, give it to me." Hot tears of shame and embarrassment climbed up her throat and made her voice thick.

Reluctantly he draped it over her shoulders.

She pulled the coat tighter around her, and still a bit wobbly, she tried to clamber to her feet. "I have to go. Please, let me by." Her eyes blurred with tears, and she was afraid she would swoon again, so she sat back down. Her dress was one of Anneke's old ones from when she'd been a bit stouter, and it hung around Kristina's uncorseted waist. She'd tried to confine her breasts with a chemise tightened severely under the arms. Even so, the weight of her loose breasts made her cross her arms in front of her, and she sat there as miserable as a shucked oyster ready for the soup pot.

Alberich moved from a crouch down to the floor next to her, where he crossed his legs Indian-style. "How long have we been working together?" he asked.

Still slightly dizzy, she said, "About three weeks, I think, off and on. In between performances and recitals."

"Have I ever behaved inappropriately to you?"

"Of course not - you have been more of a gentleman than some of those who feel God gave them a perfect right to the title." Kristina had felt the hands of those "gentlemen" occasionally, and always delivered a swift slap when it was required.

"I'm not Conservatory trained. I don't make my living as a singer. So you don't have to believe me when I tell you that to sing, you have to use your body - all of your body. You're not just an ethereal spirit hovering around the chandelier. Think of the pipe of the organ, or the reed of the oboe. We're no different. Sound comes from the movement of air over the part that resonates - in this case, the voice box in your throat. Two things determine how much air goes through your voice box - the size of your lungs, of your chest, and the strength of the muscles down below that push the air up. To push that air up, you need room." He offered her his hand. "Now, will you let me help you up?"

The room still swayed a little. "M. Niemann," she said, "I want to go to my dressing room, have some mineral water, and lie down now. I don't feel well enough to continue." She wondered if he would ask to come along, or hint that he certainly would like a mineral water as well.

A little trace of alarm flickered in his eyes. "Kristina … oh, forgive me for using your Christian name. I haven't offended you by speaking so frankly, I hope. You will come back tomorrow?"

"Of course," she said as she wrapped the heavy wool coat around herself. When he said nothing, she went out awkwardly, blushing and not knowing what else to say.

Later, stretched out on the chaise lounge in dusty little Room Seven, feeling the flow of her uncorseted body beneath the loose dress, it struck her that while he never stared or gawked, his interest hovered like a vibration in the air. Men didn't treat her that way, usually. They either ignored her, like most of the ballet boys, who had more interest in the ribbons on her costume slippers than she did. Or they fawned on her, those men in evening dress like Etienne de Coucy, men who sent flowers and the supper invitations which she routinely declined.

But she wanted more. She had seen so little of Paris, especially the Paris of the night, which everyone talked about. But she didn't want to go with one of those overdressed, overstuffed men, who thought that because they took a singer to a supper club, they could invite her to one of the private rooms upstairs. She didn't want to have to pretend wit, or cleverness, or make jokes about subjects of no interest. Anyway, she knew these men weren't interested in music. They talked through entire operas anyway, or showed up just to look at the dancers, or to watch the actress in trousers kiss the prima donna behind the cuckolded husband's back.

Her hands traveled over her stomach and hips, feeling them spread without whalebone and twill to contain them. She sat up straight and inhaled as Alberich had showed her, keeping her shoulders level, her back perfectly straight, and letting her belly swell outward with air_. If he were going to lay a hand on you, he would have done so already. It's not that he hasn't had opportunities. Nor has he ever said a single gross word to you. Some might blush and be offended at talk of stomach muscles and bellies, but he says it in such a way that you can't stay embarrassed. _

She put a hand on her stomach, and at once it seemed as if her hand had become his own broad one. _Careful, Kristina. Have some more mineral water._ _The ice is thin here, and you've just started to skate._

She drank, and that sensation returned of every sense heightened, of colors brighter, of the bitter water wetter and sharper than it had been before. _Tomorrow,_ she thought, _I leave the coat on the bench_.

* * * * * *

Early the next morning, pain pushed her up through the slow sludge of sleep, and prodded her into the light. _No, I'm not ready_, she complained, half in and out of dream, and back down into the dark she went. Alberich came to her in a fog of red light and pressed down on her belly, hard and slow, until she almost cried out. Then it all shifted and he wasn't pressing with hurt in mind, but instead pushed something out of her, something stuck. He pushed, and pushed with his big hand, and his hand turned to a fist. Then she awoke to the familiar cramp and drag in her thighs and belly and back.

_Just what I need_. Groggy from sleep and the previous long night of singing, she got up to heat water for tea and the hot water bottle. The tin of willow bark tea was empty. That would mean pulling on clothes, and fixing her hair, and walking three blocks to the chemist's shop. _Not worth it. I'll get a nip of brandy. No, two nips. That ought to quiet it down._ As she headed for the parlor, her hair all tumbled down and her housecoat half opened, a loud knock startled her into wakefulness. No good ducking back into the bedroom; Amelie wasn't there and she would have to answer the door herself. Well, it served them right if they got a terrible fright from looking at her. They deserved it for barging in on a singer at this ungodly hour.

What time was it, anyway? The knock came again, insistent. "Who is it?" she called, her voice still cracked with sleep.

"Telegraph," a young male voice answered.

Panic seized her, for a moment strong enough to wipe out the pain. _Oh, my God. I hope Anneke is all right._ A succession of quick visions raced through her mind – a train accident, a sudden illness.

The boy stared at her when she opened the door, not even looking down at the half a franc which she pressed absently into his hand. With the door securely shut, Kristina tore the envelope open so quickly that she almost shredded its contents.

The fear beating out with the waves of her pounding heart turned to annoyance as she read the telegram. It was from M. Gicard. La Renata was indisposed, and Kristina was to take her place tonight at the special performance featuring highlights from some of Paris's favorite operas. She was to sing Maestro Gounod's Marguerite, and Juliette from his opera of the same name. The rehearsal was to begin at noon.

That put an end to the possibility of any willow bark tea, if she were to make it to the theater by noon. Anneke had some laudanum for the nights when her joints ached, but Kristina knew that would make her sleepy, and stumble over her lines. She would have to suffer through it. Sighing, she rummaged for one of the knit cotton pads Anneke had showed her how to make when her hair still hung in long braids. It wasn't until she sat down to sip her black tea that she realized she had long since missed her morning meeting with Alberich. _That will be difficult to explain_, she thought, as she sat at the kitchen table drenched with late morning sunlight, her fingers pressed up against her eyes, hoping to staunch the throbbing in her head_. At least the first day usually isn't the worst. That pleasure will come tomorrow. Alberich will just have to endure this morning without me. _

Right before noon, Kristina dragged herself off to rehearse, still cramping and aching down to the knees. She had just taken off her hat when Camille Letourneau dashed up, a little breathless. "You've got to go on right now. Imagine, you're singing Marguerite tonight. It's great; I finally get to do Siebel again."

"The news could have come a little sooner. I just got the message this morning."

Camille gave her a critical look. "Probably because Renata waited until the last minute herself. What's the matter? You look like a sick cat."

"Meow," Kristina said.

"Well, if you don't want to do it," Camille said, with a tiny undertone of threat in her voice.

"Of course I do," and Kristina pulled herself up against the painful heaviness that felt like a sandbag dragging her down to earth. "What makes you think I wouldn't?"

Camille shrugged. "You'd better put some rouge on those cheeks. You look positively chlorotic."

"What do you think is wrong with Renata?"

"She says she's ill." Camille rolled her eyes. "De Carnac says if she's 'ill' one too many times, the managers will can her."

Lead tenor Filippo Lorello swung over to them both. "It's true," he said. It didn't seem possible that a voice that high and clear could come from a body so rotund. He folded his arms across his bulky chest and frowned. "All new contracts are coming for every one of us, even those who just signed. It's all about money. Devereaux and Blanchette have been spending it like water, and half the time they don't know where it goes. Not to our salaries, that's certain."

Camille laughed a little. "Our salaries aren't that bad. You just have that new wife and all those babies," and she poked his soft stomach.

Lorello flushed and then hugged her. "Someone's got to feed them."

"How many do you have now, anyway?" Camille asked.

"My sainted Dolorosa," and he made the sign of the cross, "gave me two beautiful daughters, gifts of God. They're fourteen and sixteen now, not yet married, but soon will be, the saints willing. My Annarosa gave me my son, who's three, and now twin boys, and all the little birds chirp every day for more worms."

"Worms is what they'll get from these cheapskates," she replied. "I think we should all hold out for hard bargains, and not let them think we're too easy."

"So La Renata is sick?" Kristina ventured to Lorello. "I've never sung Marguerite with you, and I'm a little nervous. Are we doing the Jewel song, the trio at the end, what?"

"The final trio, but we won't be costumed. That takes away from it, especially for Riali. He says he can't properly sing Mephisto if he's not dressed for it."

"Let him dress like a country gentleman, and that will be devil enough," Camille said. Backstage gossip linked her with one or two girls whom Riali had left over from last season; she sounded bitter.

M. De Carnac, immersed in a heated discussion with several of the strings, caught Kristina's eye and gestured, "Get on now, what are you waiting for?" He snapped his baton across his hand angrily. Someone was having an even worse day than Kristina.

Lorello motioned to Kristina. "Come over here, sweetheart, and I'll show you how we block that last trio. It's not hard."

* * * * * * *

Tea-time came, and after a few bites of caramel bun and sips of tea, Kristina remembered to visit the costumers. In the costume studio she found a new woman, tall and thin as a piece of yarn, sharply stabbing a dress with pins.

"What roles for tonight?" the costumer barked.

"Juliette and Marguerite. Where's the wardrobe mistress?"

"Out sick," she snapped. "I'm taking over for now. You're late, anyway. What do you expect me to do, sew you into your dress?"

_Did she talk this way to Renata?_ Of course not, because Renata had her own seamstress, who tailored every costume exactly to her big body.

The seamstress pulled out an ivory satin gown that looked like an escaped lunatic had decorated a wedding cake. It was one or two sizes too small.

"I'm never going to fit into that," Kristina remarked.

The waspish woman spun around as if accused of being fit only to stitch habits for the nuns. "Off with your dress," she said. "We'll make it fit."

As she tugged on Kristina's corset, lacing it up as tightly as it would go, she complained, "Of course it won't fit, not with how you have this laced. You young girls, thinking you can go around just letting your stomachs hanging out. In my day, men could circle a woman's waist with their hands. Anything larger was considered gross. Oh, forget this, it will never lace tightly enough. You've had it fitted far too large. I want you to wear this one instead," and she wrapped around Kristina a great whalebone contraption, and yanked the laces so hard Kristina gasped. "Stop whining. We're not done," and yanked again.

This time the breath flew right out of Kristina as the corset pushed her breasts up almost under her chin. The seamstress lowered the dress and laced it up, pulling hard. Kristina's pushed-up breasts bobbled out of the top, which was no doubt the desired effect, but she could scarcely breathe.

"You have to loosen it," Kristina said, struggling for breath. "I can't sing like this." Under the wardrobe woman's cross look, her lower belly started to cramp up again. Kristina stomped her foot. "Loosen these infernal stays! I'll tear this thing off right now if you don't!"

The glowering woman removed the dress, loosened the stays perhaps a finger's width at most. By the time Kristina heaved that dreadful concoction of ivory ruffles and beads back on, and the seamstress took in a tuck here, let out a pleat there, sweat ran down Kristina's back, and her knees began to buckle.

"Now for Marguerite's dress," the woman announced, and hauled Kristina out of the wedding cake dress and into a heavy dark blue velvet arrangement that looked like it had been salvaged from some Tudor travesty.

"What kind of costume is this for Marguerite?" Kristina asked in annoyance. "She's supposed to be in prison, waiting to get executed."

"I didn't pick it. Make everyone lovely, they told me. Well, you're lovely. That blue goes very well with your skin and reddish hair."

"I look like an overstuffed chaise lounge," Kristina remarked. Then it was back out of the sofa upholstery and back into the wedding cake all over again, and her knees trembled even more.

At the end, painted, bewigged, trussed, and jiggling on top like a gelatin mold, Kristina waited backstage.

The conductor took the podium, and a hush fell over the entire hall. Box 17 looked dark and unoccupied, although every other box glowed with candles, jewels, and the bright faces of the onlookers. Perhaps M. Niemann was up there, watching from the shadows everyone thought were reserved for the 'ghost.' She blinked, and as the first notes rose from the pit, swallowed away a flick of nausea.

While the Paris Opera's singers got to perform _Romeo et Juliette_ frequently, this was the first time any of its strains had been heard at the Eclectic Theater, and Kristina wobbled inside for a moment, wondering if she really could fill the hall with Renata's big notes. On the sprightly arietta "_Ah, je veux vivre_," she tried to pull all her breath up from the depths of her body, and bounced smoothly up and down the flowing passages. Like Juliette, Kristina too felt as if she had a secret little flame hidden like a treasure inside of her, and the final, almost impossibly high note in the phrase "_longtemps encor_" emerged effortlessly because the rising heat from that inner flame pushed it out. The crowd made some murmurs of pleased acknowledgment, and M. De Carnac himself looked up at her briefly, as if surprised.

Lorello then joined her for the final death scene between Romeo and Juliette. His fine tenor brought home the deep sadness and wastefulness of the young lovers' pointless sacrifice, and as she joined him for "_Ou, suis-je_," tears stood in her eyes. She usually didn't cry on stage, as it made her voice thick, but tonight the tears flowed down her painted face. She and the round-faced tenor had never done this duet on stage, but together they became the doomed lovers as thoroughly as if they had been born to it. When they cried out their hopes for flight and happiness, the hum of continual background chatter, the clinking of glasses, the pushing of chairs in the boxes, subsided a little.

_They're really listening. That would be a first. And Lorello is splendid tonight._

No longer was he a heavy man over fifty playing a youth of fifteen. The young suitor, Dolarosa's lover, emerged from beneath the thick cracked paste covering his round lined face. The tears fell unabashedly down both their cheeks, and her final "_Je t'aime_" came out not just for him, but for the man she couldn't see, the one listening from somewhere in the shadows of that great hall.

In the wings, Lorello planted two enormous kisses on each of Kristina's cheeks. "Do you know why I cried, and why I now have to go fix my face?" She shook her head, stunned. When Lorello finished an opera with Renata, he walked away without a word. He said, "I looked over at you and saw my oldest daughter lying there in that tomb. It was as if I wanted to rescue her, to make her live, but I couldn't." He turned away from her with a final whispered, "Bellisima!"

At intermission Kristina tried to do something about her dress. However, when she beckoned Camille Letourneau over and asked her for some help unlacing, Camille gave a cold glance and said, "Where's your maid?"

"Not here tonight, or I wouldn't have asked you."

"I'm on right when intermission ends. I'm going out for a cigarette first. Find someone else."

"So, your aim is to sound like a frog? You'd do better to help me out."

"I'm your understudy, Svenska, not your maid, and if I want to smoke, I will. Go find someone else to unlace you. Don't you have a costume change, anyway? Maybe it would also help to lay off the potatoes."

Kristina's face burned as a twittery costumer's maid fussed over the blue embroidered horror that was supposed to decorate the suffering prisoner Marguerite. Camille had never delivered comments so sharp or insulting before. Then Kristina understood that Camille had been Renata's understudy, before Kristina signed a contract. They pushed her farther down the ladder, instead of up_. And unlike Renata, I don't get sick, and I always show up. _

The finale was Marguerite's triumphant ascension into heaven at the end of Gounod's Faust. Kristina knew the legend from childhood, but Pappa's ending went differently from Maestro Gounod's. Faust went on to achieve wisdom and understanding, and finally tricked his way out of the devil's bargain. Her elation from the duet with Lorello had all but vanished. _Why can't we do that happy ending here? Why all this tragedy? Why does everyone at the end of these stories have to die in particularly nasty ways?_

Lost in gloomy thoughts, Kristina almost collided with the baritone Riali backstage, already costumed as Mephistopheles. So he'd gotten his way after all. But his lingering stares down her bosom went on far too long.

"You're beautiful tonight, Svenska. A sight for sore eyes longing for a fresh young Marguerite, if you ask me."

"No one did ask you, Riali, and your comments are most insulting to La Renata, and not all that flattering to me."

"With that dress, darling, I think I'll fight off Lorello and the angels, and drag you down into hell with me instead."

His frank staring made her want to laugh, rather than blush. "Some costume for a penitent, eh?"

"That's opera for you. It makes no sense. Just open your mouth and sing it."

He gave her a quick buzz on the cheek and strutted away, one minute later laughing with a chorus girl, who hopefully wasn't naïve enough to take his banter seriously.

Suddenly Kristina missed Alberich very much. _I know he's here. Why do I feel so shy even thinking of him, when I can trade quips and jibes with Riali and Lorello, even Camille, any day of the week? He would probably make some pithy comment about how tightly I was laced. If he would love this dress, he wouldn't show it._

Lorello looked concerned, and Riali leered devilishly at her again as they left backstage. "You look ill, dear," Lorello said. "You're swaying like a ship in the wind."

"It's nothing," she replied as the footlights blurred a little, and De Carnac at the conductor's podium seemed farther away than he should have been.

Nervousness left her the instant the music began to play. Lorello, Riali and Kristina soared on a great wave of sound, and when the chorus came out to join them in the final angelic uplift, the audience followed the lead of several prominent box-holders and rose to its feet in thunderous applause.

Kristina looked up to Box 17 again, and this time it wasn't imagination; a grey figure moved among the dark shadows of the box. Was it Alberich, the man nobody seemed to know, but who sang like an angel and played the fiddle like the devil himself, up there in the "ghost's" box? Suddenly a cramp of pain and sickness opened up in her stomach. She thought she saw him leaning over the edge of Box 17 as if wanting to come out of the shadows. Then everything before her eyes whirled all together in a wavering green mass. The next thing she knew, her cheek rested against the cold hard floor of the stage that smelled of the wax used to shine boots.

It was terrible luck, to be hauled off stage like a sack of flour. Lorello hoisted Kristina in his strong arms and laid her against his thick soft chest, carrying her like one of his own little daughters. She squeezed her eyes shut and rested her head against his powerful mass, not wanting to open them again. She had just hit the floor in front of a thousand people and the shame was almost too much to bear.

Behind her closed eyes, Kristina heard jabbering and chattering. Riali boomed out, "Get out of the way, someone's already called the doctor, give her air, just move, why don't you?" Then Riali faded, but Lorello marched on, and she nestled closer to him, wanting to stay that way forever, wanting never to have to open her eyes again. Cold air hit her face as they turned a corner. She heard the click of a lock, and the familiar powder-and-dust smell told her she was back in her dressing room.

Lorello set her down tenderly on the chaise, and stepped aside so that the white-haired house doctor could sit down. The dressing room's door quickly filled up with people, and a few even crossed over the threshold. One stocky youth stood to one side in a dark corner by the door where the gaslight never seemed to go.

"Get these people out of here," the doctor said. "I've got a patient to examine."

Lorello shooed them out, but the youth remained. To Kristina he looked vaguely familiar, with his face screwed up into an expression of passionate interest and concern, and also puzzlement, as if he expected to be recognized by the girl who lay back on the chaise, two hot tears leaking out from under her closed eyes.

"Please get everyone out of here," Kristina whispered to the doctor. "I feel as if I'm coming apart."

The elderly man shoved everyone out, including the silent young one, shutting the door conclusively. "Where's the maid?" he asked in irritation. "Bother her, I'll have to do this myself. Don't be embarrassed, Mademoiselle, but I must ask you to remove your dress and loosen your stays. Do you know how many times I get called because of these infernal accoutrements?" He helped her loosen both the dress and the corset beneath, and her ribs swelled out in relief. "Don't get up," he ordered. "I'm not done. When did you last eat?" He shook his head at Kristina's vague answer, and pulled down one pink eyelid. "It's a little pale. Have you just had your monthlies?"

"They started today."

"I'm glad you admitted it to me. Some won't even acknowledge that they have them. Listen to me, young lady. You need to eat more beef. Salads and aspic are fine, but ladies need beef. French women especially never seem to understand that."

"I'm not French; I'm from Sweden."

"Then, constitutionally, you're descended from people who ate practically nothing but meat. Loosen your stays as far as modesty will allow; stop skipping meals, and eat more of what's on the hoof. I think you're going to live, but you have to take better care of yourself. Come see me tomorrow or the day after if you're not feeling better. Don't take laudanum for your monthlies, either. It just makes things worse in the long run," and with that, he went out the door.

Kristina stood up, surprisingly steady on her feet. Through the door the doctor spoke sharply to someone, saying, "No, she can't see you now, do you hear? She's had a shock and needs rest. You young men need to stop hanging about the corridors. This isn't a Pigalle brothel. Just go home and leave the lady alone," and then his footsteps receded into the distance.

Wrapped up in one of Anneke's warm afghans, she gently rocked back and forth with unhappiness. She could bear neither the thought of the walk home in the dark, nor the idea of sleeping on the chaise or the daybed. She drifted away to where a tiny, forlorn creature scurried back and forth, lost in a maze of stone, looking endlessly for an exit never found.

A gentle tap on the door interrupted her dream. "Mlle. Sigurdsdotter?"

She swung the door open at once and there he was, his mournful face crossed with anxiety. He waited until she took hold of his cloak and rapidly drew him in, then shut the door. "I saw you faint," he said. "How are you now?" He stood there with his hat pulled low over his face, as if he hadn't wanted anyone to recognize him in the corridor. Almost as an afterthought, he removed his hat.

"Alberich! Oh, I'm sorry, M. Niemann. I'm not myself right now, and you must forgive me."

He looked at the costume lying on the chair. "Your corset was too tight, wasn't it?"

"I knew you would say that. Don't worry, I've already had the lecture from the doctor. He also told me to eat more beef," and Alberich half-smiled again. "I imagined you listening to me. I tried to put into practice what you've taught me, but the dress was just too tight. I couldn't hold my breath that long, and when I tried … well, you saw. I shouldn't be surprised if I'm never given the role of Marguerite again. They'll think I don't have it in me. Maybe I don't."

"You do. You would make a splendid Marguerite."

"Oh, it's a showcase role, all right, and the singing part itself would be a great triumph."

"It's cold in here," he said, and adjusted the woolen afghan around her again.

Nestled in, she went on, "But I don't even like her, as a character. She breaks poor Siebel's heart, all because he's poor, even when he truly loves her. When Pappa and I lived in Uppsala, people treated us as if we were nothing because we were poor. Then she yields herself to Faust … but that isn't the worst part; it's her poor darling baby. Then, simply because she won't go with Faust at the end, but decides to die instead, she gets taken up to Heaven. We never even hear that she was sorry about the baby."

He leaned his head against the wall. His hair was what night might look like, if it were poured out of a bottle and set about with threads of silver.

"Right before we went on," she prattled, "Riali told me that it was opera; that it didn't have to make sense. I almost long for the days when I sang at the Comic Opera. At least the characters' motivations were understandable. They were either in love, or someone was in love with them, and it all got tangled up into this silly, overblown plot. But at bottom, it was all about the heart, and funny besides. I thought 'serious opera' would be grand, but it's mostly incoherent, and it always ends so sadly."

"You're feeling better," he remarked. "And you're missing the party."

"I couldn't go. I'm sad and I'm tired. You wouldn't think fainting was hard work, but it is. I'm too weary to face the walk home, and the thought of staying here while a party rages through the whole theater … "

He said in a loud, firm voice, "You sang beautifully tonight, unlike anything from you that I have heard so far."

"I sang for you. I imagined you listening to me." She recalled the strange mental picture right before everything went green and black. "Where were you sitting tonight, M. Niemann?"

His eyes flickered in the gaslight, and the shadows under them looked very bruised. "I bought a seat up in the top tier. Luckily I got the center."

"What? You weren't in your box?"

He laughed without smiling. "My box? What am I, a lord?"

"But I thought ..." and she stopped. What had she seen up there, if anything? Distracted by the deep glittery dark of his eyes, by how the dimmed gaslight backlit his long hair with an almost halo-like glow, she wanted to take his hand, but held herself back. "Never mind."

The moment passed, and he stirred. "Mlle. Sigurdsdotter, I would like to escort you home. A walk is less burdensome when it's made in company."

She warmed to the second genuine burst of happiness of the day. As they went into the hall, Kristina veered towards her customary turn to the left, but he gestured to follow him to the right. As they rounded the corner she heard a shout in the hallway as someone called her name, but Alberich steered her deftly along, clearly not wanting to wait for whomever it was that called out for her_. __Just some other well-wisher anyway. I'd much rather head for home._

Then, to her surprise, Alberich entered the little cul-de-sac at the end of the hall, placed his hand on the left-side wall, and a narrow door opened into a dark, masonry-lined passageway. She followed him in and the door closed behind without a sound.

A few dim gaslights spaced at long intervals made it barely possible to see. The corridor was too narrow for the two of them to walk abreast, so she crept up closely behind him. They walked for what seemed a long way, and then another fork branched off to the right, into a hallway even darker, narrower, and more forlorn than this one.

"Where does it go?" she asked.

"Down below to the basement," he replied. "But we're going up and out, not down. Be quiet, as we're not supposed to be here now." They went on in silence for another few moments, and then came out onto that side of the theater away from the cab stands and crowds.

"I saved you a block or so walk, didn't I?" he said, offering his arm as they crossed the boulevard.

"How did you come to know so much about the Eclectic Theater?"

"It's full of tunnels. Some were from the war with the Prussians, but some are older than that. I found a lot of them while wiring the building for the new electric lights." He offered her his arm as he slowed his long strides to match hers. His arm radiated warmth through the woolen cloak and jacket beneath it. She put her other hand on top of it as they walked on, and the big hard muscle in his forearm trembled a little. "They also pay me to keep up the gas lines and venting for the gas system, and the pumps which keep the lower cellar from filling up with water."

"You aren't building now."

"Soon, probably. I have some of my own designs. But they're unusual, and it's hard to find someone to invest in them. It will take time, but I'll find a way to work on them."

"If not here, then in Algeria?"

He looked surprised, but before he could answer, another couple passed them going the other way. The woman was drunk and almost sprawled on her partner, who leaned over to kiss the side of her face as they both stumbled on.

Embarrassed, Kristina leaned a little closer into his arm, and almost walked past her own building. It was after two in the morning, and coming home with a man on her arm was still quite new, even if it was the one man whom she wanted to see all through this evening. It was worth the faint, and the humiliation of crumpling to the stage floor in front of all those people.

Presently Alberich stopped, and she looked around dazedly. "I really am more tired than I thought. It was so pleasant to just keep on going." Still holding on to his arm, reluctant to let go, she said, "Tomorrow I have to sleep, but what about the next day? We don't have to go to the Singers' Salon. You could come to my dressing room." Then she felt a trace of anxiety; was that too forward? In the world backstage, a man in the dressing room meant one thing.

"All right," he said. "I have something you might find interesting. I'll provide our accompaniment." Then he smiled, a full and genuine smile that lit up his face in the soft cold night that smelled of snow. The broad expanse of night sky threatened to snow fat white flakes that would cover everything. All through Kristina's childhood, winter meant snow, not the anemic slush that lined the Parisian streets. She wanted to see Alberich in the snow, with flakes covering his streaked hair. "I think you'll like it," he went on. "Now I'll wait here until I see the light come on in your window."

As she walked up the stairs, looking anxiously at the concierge's dark window, she turned to see him standing so still under the gaslight, casting a long shadow of intense blackness. When she lit her bedroom light and looked out over the balcony, he was still there, and he waved before turning swiftly to stride noiselessly up the street.

His shoes were so quiet. And how was it that he knew at which building to stop?

(_continued _…)


	10. The Ghost's Lady

**The Ghost's Lady**

After the exhausting night before, Kristina slept until almost noon; a deep, rich sleep with no dreams. Amelie must have let herself in and gone out again, for when Kristina entered the kitchen there were piled on the table a stack of notes, as well as several newspapers already opened, with thick black circles drawn around several of the articles.

Some of the notes were even from subscribers, and one was from de Carnac himself, a few sentences praising her rendition of Gounod's work, and conveying a compliment to whoever was teaching her at the moment. _Alberich will like this. I'll have to show it to him_.

Then she saw the thick, creamy envelope embossed with the de Coucy crest. What would Mirella say if she knew that Etienne de Coucy had written to her? However, upon opening it, she discovered that it was not from the Comte de Coucy at all, but from his young brother, Louvel.

My Dear Christine," it went.

_You will forgive me presuming upon our childhood friendship, and addressing you informally and by your Christian name. Since I first heard you sing Smeton in Anna Bolena, I have been smitten, you might say. Wait! Please don't let a childish pun consign this conveyance of deep devotion out of your fair hand._

_My brother, the Comte de Coucy, and myself have been following the meteoric rise of your star at the Eclectic Theater, and we are among many subscribers who have asked why we have not seen more of you, and in more prominent roles._

_Let me offer also my deepest concern for your health. I hope you have fully recovered from your swoon. My heart broke for you, seeing you lying so pale and wan in your dressing room. Do not think me too bold if I ask that we may renew our friendship in more congenial circumstances._

_I remain your obedient servant and childhood friend, Louvel._

So that was the short, roundish young man who stood in the corner of the dressing room, at least until the doctor threw him out. Kristina tried to recollect his features, but could see only Louvel as a boy, all light-colored hair and tan skin, his sweet features atop a slightly clumsy boy's body.

Anneke had marked a few articles. "A Valkyrie Among the Angels," one banner proclaimed. Another, a review by a critic notorious for savaging singers, said, "In the past she called down great draughts of glacial Northern air, but now some thaw has mellowed her voice. The only warmth we can think of strong enough to melt that blizzard of ice is love. Mlle. Sigurdsdotter sings as if the flames of love have melted her frozen heart for the first time."

A hot creeping sensation climbed up from her stomach to her shoulders like a monkey up a ladder. She could imagine what Anneke or Amelie would say about this one. There were more:

"This reviewer wonders why such a treasure has been withheld from Opera subscribers for so many months."

"Mlle. Sigurdsson looks like a soubrette, but pours forth the sizeable volume of a Valkyrie." Kristina gave an exasperated sigh at the mangling of her name. Then she gave a start. Amelie had missed this one, a cheap gossip column that spared no one.

"The rising star of the Eclectic Theater is a largely mysterious figure, who makes this writer's life difficult by not frequenting the usual cafes and bistros favored by the theater crowd, and where he can more conveniently tease pearls of wisdom from singers' lips. Of great interest to all concerned is the identity of this second Swedish nightingale's new teacher. Theater staff report hearing her in the early morning hours rehearsing with some unknown personage, who coaches his songbird in the Singer's Salon. Or perhaps she is being tutored by the notorious ghost of the theater himself, that spirit rumored to haunt the building since its earliest construction, when a young workman drowned in the mysterious Roman bath beneath its auditorium. One doubts, however, that the spirit of a simple workman could lift our ingénue to such ethereal heights."

Her first instinct was to rip the paper into shreds. What did he know about working men, or music, or the angel that inspired it? What a fool she had been, to think that her comings and goings were invisible to the hundreds of eyes all around at the theater, or that her meetings with Alberich could have gone unremarked, or that her failure to get an "official" voice teacher would have gone unnoticed.

She folded up the offending article and stuffed it into the top bureau drawer before leaving for the theater. One of the notes had been a stiffly worded summons to pick up the flowers delivered for her. They'd been placed in the Singer's Salon instead of Dressing Room Seven, to avoid disturbing the doctor while he examined her.

The hothouse blooms improved the sadly neglected Singers' Salon, but they looked fragile, and a good many of the roses had already curled around the edges. Kristina neither wanted to drag them down to Room Seven, nor spend an hour hunting for a porter, so she decided to take them down to the ballet studio.

She didn't have to wait long for a break in the lesson, as it was nearly tea-time. The intermediate ballet master was a tall, lean man whose promising career had been cut short by a torn knee. The girls called him "M. Frou-Frou" behind his back but loved him in the studio, as he filled each one with the hope that she too could soar from lowly ballet rat to row leader, and perhaps even higher. His movements flowed with fluid strength from the line of his neck down to the long arch of his arm.

"Ah, Mlle. Sigurdsdotter," he announced. "The lady of the hour, and bearing flowers at that. How can one resist?" He waved impatiently at the two tallest girls. "Take those vases and set them down over on the side table. Would you let Mademoiselle struggle like that?" Then he made a great show of kissing both of Kristina's cheeks.

"There are more in the Singer's Salon," she said. "I'll go get them."

"No, no, let these great galumphing girls do it." He dismissed the class and a wave of tarlatan-clad girls broke against her. They cooed over the flowers, and wanted to know who brought them. Dodging their nimble fingers, Kristina picked out a few cards and put them into her pocket. "My secret admirers shall remain secret," she said. However, one little jackdaw got ahead of her and had the card in her little claws at once, opening it before Kristina could stop her.

In a sing-song voice the ballerina read, "It says, 'Many congratulations on your triumph. With deepest affection, your Louvel, who holds our summer days always close in his heart."

"Who's Louvel? Who's that?" a few chimed in.

"Ooh, in his heart, that sounds serious."

The ballet master grinned wickedly at Kristina's discomfort.

Then one of the smaller girls, about ten, said, "She can't have a beau. Lisette's mamma says that she's the ghost's lady."

The room grew very quiet. "What? What does she say? Tell me at once!" The girl darted a nervous glance at Kristina but said nothing. "It's all right, little one, I'm not upset," Kristina said. "It just took me by surprise, that's all. I'm as interested in your 'ghost' as you are," and gave the girl a winning smile.

One girl said to another, "Lisette said that the Ghost's lady listens to him play his violin in his special box. The lady left a lace handkerchief and a pair of opera glasses."

_So that's where the glasses went_.

"That's not the first time the Ghost has had a lady in his box," said a bigger girl with reddish hair. "Lisette herself told me that her mother said that sometimes you could see a lady sitting in the ghost's box during performances. But that only happened two or three times."

"Oh, really?" Kristina asked. "Someone actually saw a lady there? That's very interesting." _Interesting indeed_. "Could you ever see the ghost himself?"

"No," the redhead answered, "Because he kept his box dark and sometimes closed half the curtain."

"He's a sly one, isn't he?" Kristina said.

The ballet master clapped his hands so loudly that everyone jumped. "Time for tea, girls, so thank Mademoiselle for the flowers," he said in his penetrating voice, and in the flutter and general confusion Kristina managed to escape.

* * * * * * *

That evening Anneke returned from Marseilles. She had left earlier than she had expected, because in the course of her extended visit, other people's grandchildren had become too tiresome. "I never thought I would long for the quietness of Paris," Anneke said as she and Kristina coped with a whirlwind of trunks, bags, and wraps. Finally, the two women settled down with tea and talked for awhile of babies. Then Kristina hesitantly showed her the reviews (except for the one that remained in her drawer), as well as a few invitations to sing at private concerts.

"What I do on the boards is work," she explained to Anneke. "But to sing at a party or at an embassy, that's real fun. Yes, they make you feel like one of their servants, but that's when I get to try out parts that I wouldn't be given otherwise. Besides, it's intimate, very personal when I can look directly into people's eyes, and watch their faces as I sing."

Anneke came to the one review, the one Kristina had thought of concealing. "So he thinks you sound like you've just fallen in love? Well, have you?"

Once Anneke had a cat more nervous than cats usually are. If Kristina would walk past it and brush it with her skirt, it would rear up with arched back, and hiss at whomever disturbed its composure. The simple directness of Anneke's question put her back up in the same way. "Of course not! Where would I have time to fall in love?"

Anneke gave a dry laugh. "I'm sure you're around dozens of eligible men every day."

"My tenor counterpart is fifty and a father of four. The actor who sang Mephistopheles in the gala thinks he has every chorus girl in his pocket, and he's usually right. There are ten ballet girls to every boy, and half of the boys prefer each other's company. The rest are too busy picking and choosing among the ballet girls. There is the one set carpenter who teases me, but other than jokes, we don't have a lot to say to each other. So no, no love."

She hated hiding things from Anneke, yet couldn't help herself. It was too new, and she was afraid that if she said anything, it would all blow away like smoke in a strong wind.

"You don't mention friends much," Anneke remarked. "But you never seemed to miss them if you didn't have them."

"Well, there is my understudy, Camille. I haven't figured her out yet. She smokes long thin brown cigars and alternately hates me, making the rudest remarks, or puts her arm around my shoulder as if we were the best of friends, or likes to squeeze my hand during rehearsals. The theater is a mad place, Anneke, especially backstage. Don't even get me going on the married gentlemen in fine dress who swarm all over the dancer's lounge and the corridors outside our dressing rooms."

Anneke's lips compressed into a thin line. She had never shared Kristina's father's obsessive pieties, but on that she and he had agreed - when it came to the theater, innocence lasted about as long as a crocus in the June sun. It wasn't that Anneke was naïve; it was that she and Dr. Sibelius had inhabited a different musical world. Theirs had been one of well-run and polite lessons; of teas with reverent boys and their parents; of orderly, smooth rehearsals and recitals, unmarred by high-strung singers who ripped off their wigs during dress rehearsal and tramped them underfoot because they hated the color. Anneke had never walked into the prop room and surprised two lovers with skirt up and trousers down, who didn't even turn to the sound of an opening door. "I hope you're steering clear of all that," Anneke finally said, with a wave of her hand indicating exactly what "all that" meant.

Now guilt weighed on Kristina, who had never deliberately concealed anything from Anneke, not even in those months after their move to Paris, when Pappa and Anneke fought, and young Kristina had hated her for criticizing him. Amelie could have easily just opened the younger woman's top drawer, and shown Anneke the article. Better to have left it in plain sight. Amelie, who devoured gossip, had probably read it anyway. Nonetheless, Kristina held onto her secret as tightly as she had held Alberich's arm the night before.

* * * * * * *

He tapped on the door of Room Seven precisely at 8:00 the next morning. Kristina had already straightened, dusted, massaged her throat with long strokes, and warmed up. Uncorseted in Anneke's old, loose dress, she waited for the knock to come, excited and exhilarated.

He entered, carrying a large wooden box, sat down on the floor, and opened it like a toy. Out folded a keyboard, and the levers and stops. On the back was a collapsible bellows, very like an accordion's. The surface was a rich red wood, with intricate carvings and mother-of-pearl inlay. She knelt down beside him and rubbed the satiny wood with her fingers. "What is it? A toy?"

"Hardly. It's a portable harmonium."

"So clever. Where did you get it? I've never seen one like this."

"I didn't get it anywhere. I made it."

"So tiny!"

"Actually, it's larger than usual, with five octaves instead of three. I like the greater range."

"What a clever little bellows. How do you play it with both hands, if you have to give it air from the back?"

"I have a foot pedal adjuster, but I didn't bring it. It's made so that someone else can press the bellows. Since you're here, you can do it for me, if you didn't mind, that is. This one's a sample, to show off the design. My friend Timurhan takes a few to Constantinople when he visits his relatives, and he always manages to sell them."

He adjusted a few stops, and signaled Kristina with a nod to begin. The bellows had surprisingly little resistance, and as she pushed, Alberich played a little tune that sounded exactly as if it were sung in a young girl's high-pitched voice. He went off into a folk melody, and sang in wordless harmony with the voice. Then he adjusted the stops again, and played the same melody, but now with tones like a high baritone or low tenor.

"Can you make it do two voices at once?" she asked.

He looked pleased as he played a tenor and soprano together, one of the bantering love duettas from _Romeo et Juliette_.

"I can almost hear them!" Kristina crowed. "This is really remarkable. How do you do it?"

"Each key has four reeds, which is more than usual, and it's also in the way the four reeds are shaped, and how they're arranged in a bank. No one's ever done it that way; I patented it. It started out when I was playing alone. I wanted a voice, a female voice to accompany me, and so I built one."

Kristina wanted to ask, why not find a singer? Why not find someone to sing with, and then she realized that indeed, he had, and she grew flustered.

"Listen to this," he said, and if he was aware of the reason for her silence, he didn't let on. "I can even simulate three voices, a soprano, tenor, and bass," and indeed they did sound remarkably like human voices. He pulled one stop, then another, and made them harmonize in a trio.

"It's remarkable. If you could only make them say words."

"Wouldn't that be something?" he asked, and his intense face gladdened as he talked on about the shape of the mouth, and the throat, and how complicated the mechanism would have to be to create even the simplest babblings of a child. "It can sound like a more conventional organ, too," he added, playing some Bach-like air as Kristina continued to pump the bellows.

"Can you do a cello? It's my favorite among all the strings."

"It would take some doing, to make a reed that could imitate a cello."

"I can hear a little of it in the male voice, though. It's in the undertones."

"That's right. But you must be getting tired."

"A little, yes. I just need to stretch."

He stood up stiffly, and she did likewise. A wild thought came to her, unplanned yet suddenly full of compulsion. Nervousness almost closed her throat, but she cleared it and said, "I have something to show you, too."

"Shall I sit back down for this?" he said, almost smiling.

From the small chest of drawers she took an old battered folio. "This was my Pappa's. I brought it up here to use it in practice. He played the violin beautifully, but this was the only music of his that ever got transcribed. I had to follow him around one afternoon, nagging him to do it. He would play it and say, 'Isn't that enough? How many times do you have to hear it?' Finally I gave up, and just added in the parts I missed."

"Funny," he said. "My father would do almost the same thing. In the same annoyed tone of voice. As if I should have remembered it perfectly from the first, just as he did."

"Is that where you learned to play? From him?"

He nodded. She motioned him to sit at the small table, and he took the papers carefully in his hands, looking them over one by one. She leaned over, close, to see it too. The old-paper smell and his scent hung in the air, and before she knew it, she was breathing deeply, taking it all in. "Here, let me see how this sounds. If you don't mind giving me some more air, that is." As he played, he nodded his head in time to some silent beat. "It sounds like Schubert," he finally remarked.

"My Pappa loved Schubert, especially his Lazarus oratorio. He wanted to finish it, write the rest of it, all the parts that were lost, and to turn it into a whole story. The part you just saw, that was supposed to be where Jesus meets Lazarus later, to see how he liked being alive again. But like Schubert, he never finished it, either."

"It's sad. Not what you would expect."

"Pappa used to say that Lazarus was disappointed. He thought that everything would change for him, but actually nothing did. He still had to go to work every day as a weaver. He still had to listen to his sisters bicker. Pappa worked on it every day for awhile, but I think it did make him sad, and that's why he finally stopped. But when he played the old tunes, the folk tunes, that was when he was happy. He was a baritone, like you. He sang in the church, at home," and then she hesitated, reined in by an old grief. "Until he stopped going, that is."

He gave her a penetrating look. "At home?"

"On our farm. Outside of Uppsala. It's the only place I really call home, even though it's long sold and gone."

"I wish I had something like this, by which to remember my own father."

Kristina looked up, surprised at the tender expression on his face. "You mean, music?"

"Anything of him which would remind me of him. There's nothing of him I can point to exactly in the Rennes cathedral, for instance. Did he repair this lintel, or that one? Which wing on which gargoyle did he replace?"

"But he must have built something unique, something for your family."

"There was the house," he mused.

"See?"

"But it doesn't say the same thing. Not like the act of having a thought, and bringing it into being."

Kristina tossed her head, a little impatient and confused. "Stone lasts longer than most music. And music won't keep the snow off your head, or the wind off your back." Bitter memories welled up suddenly, and she pushed them down. Better to change the subject. "When did your father die?"

"It's been ten years, but I'm still not used to it. He was quite old, but still cutting stone until a few weeks before he passed."

"So we're both orphans," she said.

He didn't answer at once. Instead, he twiddled the stops on the harmonium, and then played some random plangent chords. She wondered why his face reddened slightly, as if he were embarrassed. "So how did you come to Paris?" he finally asked.

She started slowly, wanting to open up to him, yet not sure how much. "Dr. Sibelius and his wife took us in when we were wandering the streets of Uppsala, when I was a girl. We had no coal in our garret rooms, and I was wearing felt slippers while Pappa played on the streets. We might literally have starved without him. He took a shine to Pappa, and his wife liked me. They never had any children, you see, and Pappa became the Doctor's 'project.' I think he had fond dreams of turning Pappa into some kind of 'discovery.' But Pappa had other ideas."

She started to shake, visibly, and stopped because of the catch in her throat. He moved as if to take her hand, and then checked himself. "It's all right," he said, and then paused as if struggling to think of something else to say. "I could work on it, try some things, add that as a piano part, and include a cello as well. Would you like that?"

"Would I like that?" she said. "What do you think?" She could hear herself chattering as if from very far away, but couldn't stop herself. "On the other hand, you would have to take it, wouldn't you? Or I would have to copy it out. But just the thought makes me tired, as it was so much work to transcribe it in the first place. Then I have double rehearsals next week, and I haven't any paper. That would mean a trip to the shop …" It frightened her a little, too, to think of handing over the last relics of her father, besides a few daguerreotypes and his rosary, to … to whom? She didn't even know where Alberich lived. If he disappeared, she might never get the folder of music back.

He saw her apprehension. "You can trust me with this. What I'll do is copy it out, and give you back the original. I'll hear it in my mind as I copy it, anyway, so you could say that half the work will be done simply in the act of copying."

"M. Niemann, I do trust you. It's just that … I don't know where you live, and if you … if you forgot, or something like that … if it slipped your mind … Oh, forgive me, that makes it sound like I don't trust you at all … " Suddenly it all felt clumsy and awkward, and she had to fight to snatch back her father's portfolio of sheet music.

He looked away, saying nothing. Something terrible came to her mind, and her stomach clenched in nausea as in a small voice she said from across the room, "M. Niemann, I have to ask you this. Please don't be affronted, but are … are you married?" It was the only thing she could think of to explain his reticence about himself, to explain his love of secrecy. And to give her Pappa's music to a married man seemed in some way worse than even giving over her body.

His eyes flew open and he laughed out loud, a deep, booming laugh from the very core of his body. "Oh, dear God," he said. "No. Absolutely not. Please rest assured that I have never been married, and please forgive me if I did anything to give you that very wrong impression."

"Thank you," she whispered. "I'm so relieved."

He gathered together the sheets of Kristina's father's music and handed them back to her. She reached her hands out to take them, and while their fingers didn't brush, she felt a tiny rush of warm air across her hand. "No, take it," she said with sudden resolution, pushing the portfolio back. "Please. Make it into something beautiful for him."

"I'll try," he said. "But it will take longer than the three days it took Christ to bring forth Lazarus. Although I do have an idea, if you would like to hear it, and don't mind working the bellows again."

He started to play, and Kristina forgot that she was hearing a small tabletop instrument. The lead melody, the resurrection theme swelled up, but it was dampened by a countermelody, sad and just a little dissonant. It was Lazarus, not sure about being alive, and more than a little disappointed. The melody swirled a little, as if a shroud were being unwound. But rebirth wasn't what Lazarus expected, and Alberich's experiment ended incompletely, on a note unresolved.

Tears stood in her eyes. "He would have loved it."

"It's just a sketch. Give me some time to work it out."

"It made me miss him. I haven't felt like that in a while. He will have been dead three years come next Friday. He's laid to rest in Ploumanac'h, and I suppose I will have to go this year." He sat silently, his eyes warm in his impassive face, and again she had the sense of chattering too much, but still she went blindly on. "I don't really want to. I had pleurisy last year and missed it. The year before that, I had examinations. It's such a long ride on the train, and then you have to take a coach from Lannion, which takes another hour. But Pappa said that it was a religious duty, to visit the grave on the day of a person's death."

"Your father emphasized religious duties?"

She spoke slowly, as if realizing something for the first time. "My father was never happy, not in running the farm, not with my poor sick mother, not with me. There was always some sunset he had to chase. For him, leaving the village church, becoming a Catholic was just another sunset, only one he actually caught."

"What about you?"

"I wanted to go to school more than anything. I was almost twelve when we came to Paris, and at first Pappa didn't want to send me to school. Anneke had been taught by her father as a young woman, back in the days when girls in Sweden almost never went to school beyond learning to read the Bible and to figure the household accounts. She beat Pappa about the ears so thoroughly that he agreed to send me to school. But it had to be a Catholic one. So I took the instruction, and one thing led to the next."

"Do you believe any of it?"

"I don't know. I don't know if Pappa did, even. In the last few years of his life, it was as if he lived in a dream. Some days the dream was beautiful, but others were days full of black terrors. Sometimes the nuns' stories wove themselves into his dreams. He would wake at night, crying out in fear. And some I think he just made up on his own. I know he was terrified of hell. He used to go to Mass every day, and he would have gone to confession every day too, or even twice, until one morning a priest told him that it was too much. He said, Sigurd, you're tearing yourself up with it, and told him not to come back until the following Saturday. 'How can a priest keep me from the holy sacrament?' Pappa asked me one day. He sat at the kitchen table and cried, even more than when we lost Mamma.

"Anneke was so exasperated, she snapped out that if he truly were a good Catholic, he would listen to the priest and shut up. It was a cruel thing to say, but I think she got through to him even where the priest didn't. Pappa limited himself to every Saturday after that, but I could tell he really wanted to go more often.

"But to get back to your question … I don't know what I believe. Right now, I think if I believed in anything, it is my own experience, in what I see and understand. So, I know that I like fresh-churned butter rather than that I buy at the market. I know that the sun comes up, and sets, and when it sets the moon rises. It's so beautiful … doesn't there have to be something grand and magnificent behind it all? But as for going all that way to Ploumanac'h to have a Mass said for my father, out of 'religious duty?' I suppose I have to do it out of love, without understanding. But certainly you must know all this. M. Niemann, I thought you were a Catholic?"

"I was baptized, but my mother wouldn't take me to hear the Mass. She was ashamed of my face, she said. My father never went."

Kristina's heart grew hot. "A mother who wouldn't take a child to church, for such a foolish reason as that? What was she ashamed of? She didn't make your face the way it was."

"She thought she did," he replied. "She used to sit in the kitchen and cry that it was all her fault; that God had cursed her. My nurse sounds a lot like your Anneke; she used to snap at my mother to go to confession if she had something on her soul, and be done with it. But Mother wouldn't go to confession, either. The cathedral in Rennes had burned years before, and my father and his men were rebuilding it. When I was about ten, Father took me to the Rennes cathedral to work with him, and I would hear the priests chanting. Sometimes I would stand in the back, looking down the long nave aisle, listening to the cathedral choir rehearse the solemn High Mass, and the sound soared up lighter than air."

It was too terrible for her, this image of a tiny child outside the house of God, all because of his face. "Please forgive me, for I wouldn't want to insult anyone's mother, but how can one keep a child shut away from God and man because you don't like the way he looks?"

He stared for a second into the dressing-table's threefold mirrors, turned away from his image, and with nowhere else to look, cast his eyes down towards his shoes.

She poked him lightly on the arm. "The answer's not down there. If something's wrong, it's best to say that it's wrong."

He shrank a little from her touch. "She used to try to force me to wear a mask, or so my old nurse told me when I was young, but my father made her stop. Mother always acted as if I reminded her of something, something dreadful. If I was out of the way, she would sing while she worked in the kitchen with the maid, or hanging up the laundry, or cutting vegetables. She had a voice like a clear bell, not like yours, with your richness, but instead a thin one, light and beautiful. To hear her sing I had to hide in a corner, or not come into the room, because if I did, she would stop whatever she was doing, and just cry.

"It was when I was old enough to get a sense of what she meant when she went on about 'God's punishment' that I began losing my interest in the Mass, and started thinking about the music instead. Or to be more specific, thought about the mathematics of the music. My father had just bought me some textbooks of the geometry of Euclid, and through listening to music, I could experience those structured shapes coming to life. But the words came to mean less and less to me. No one could tell me what was wrong with me, with my face. No one could tell me what was wrong with my mother. I refused, however, to accept it as 'God's will,' even if everyone else did." He stood up abruptly. "Kristina, this is what I believe: that every day one decides all over again to live, rather than to die, represents a substantial victory."

_He called me Kristina_, she thought. He just stood there, looking at himself without emotion in the dressing-table mirrors. She rested her hand gently on his sleeve, careful to touch only the cloth and not caress the flesh underneath. The muscle of his arm made a slow twist under her hand, like a large fish turning lazily at the bottom of a green lake.

He breathed in slowly, as if steeling himself for some especially difficult task, and then asked, "Would you like me to meet you in Ploumanac'h? I know the region well. We can visit your father's grave together." His arm was so warm under his coat, and she didn't want to let it go. So she held on, and he continued, "I wouldn't think of asking you to travel with me. But I will meet you, if you want."

"Alberich, I would like that. I would like that very much."

"I will look for you after your father's Mass, then, in the churchyard."

(_Continued_…)


	11. Forsaken by the Angels

**Forsaken by the Angels**

Louvel sent another letter, which Kristina set aside until curiosity made her open it. There was nothing new. He couldn't get her impassioned gala rendition of Juliette out of his mind. He implored her to allow him to call for her in his carriage this coming Friday. They could talk, and renew the friendship he treasured so deeply from their childhood, and for which he recently had developed such fond hopes of re-igniting. It went on for another half-page, all in that vein.

It was sweet. And it was tempting, if only for a few seconds.

Louvel probably didn't know that Pappa had died, she realized. She and Louvel had not spoken face to face since the day they had last seen each other at the gate in front of the old whitewashed house on the seaside near Ploumanac'h. That momentary glimpse of him in her room after she'd swooned during the performance didn't count. Pappa's death notice had been in the Paris papers, of course, but what young person reads those? He might not have even been in Paris at the time.

_I couldn't have told him when it happened_, she argued with herself. _As far as I knew then, he was gone from my life. I didn't even know where he was_. Louvel had known Pappa and liked him; even tried to learn the violin from him during that last summer spent together in Ploumanac'h. He was a poor student, though, and quickly lost interest. _What would it hurt to tell him now? I can beg off from his invitation at the same time_.

So she composed:

_Dear Monsieur Vicomte de Coucy:_

_I thank you for your kind words about my performances and for your invitations as well. My schedule requires me to limit my involvements outside the theater, but I will keep your generous offers in mind._

_I must refuse your offer of a meeting this coming Friday, as I am otherwise engaged. M__y father, whom you knew from years past, passed away five years ago this coming Friday, and rests at the local chapel's churchyard in Ploumanac'h, in Bretagne. It will comfort you to know that a funeral Mass will be said there on his death day, for the repose of his soul._

_Again, thank you for your best wishes and kind regards,_

_Sincerely, etc."_

The letter hit the bottom of the mailbox with a thunk which said, No turning back. Perhaps this communication wasn't so wise an idea after all. Perhaps Louvel might construe it as an invitation. Nonsense, she told herself, standing before the letterbox's mouth, which never gives back what it swallows. _Louvel wouldn't have time for that, anyway. His name is in the gossip columns every few weeks as he appears at this fete or that charity ball with yet another eligible young noblewoman on his arm. There's no reason for him to make the cold and dismal trek to Ploumanac'h simply to pay his respects at the grave of a man from whom he had taken a few violin lessons as a child, and whom he barely knew. Too late, the letter's on its way now._

* * * * * * *

The day of her departure dawned cold and foggy. As the train pulled out of the familiar sights of Paris and into the surrounding countryside, she thought about how much her father had hated Paris.

Sigurd Svensson never spoke of it to Dr. Sibelius, but as soon as the four of them set up their little household in Paris, he refused to go outside. Dr. Sibelius coaxed him as Anneke's face grew cold and closed. Kristina, still in long braids and short skirts, didn't understand. Why would Pappa want to sit inside when the sun poured over the River Seine like liquid bronze? She wanted to run up and down and look at every Sunday painter's easel, or go to the Zoo, recently restocked with animals after the war. Most of all, she wanted to see the ruins, all the old worn buildings of Paris torn down and replaced with new ones. The crews of builders and laborers swarmed over them, driving mules with their carts full of rubble. She especially wanted to walk past the great new opera house where Rue Scribe and Boulevard de Capucines met.

But in a dark narrow room with two iron cots Pappa sat, and behind their own bedroom door Anneke talked to her husband in low, cutting tones. Once Kristina passed by their door, which wasn't shut tight as usual, and overheard, "Also, Cornelius, the girl is too old to be sharing a room with her father. She needs her own room, or Sigurd needs to sleep on the couch. It's not fitting." The professor's soft-spoken reply she could not hear.

Kristina couldn't imagine not sleeping near Pappa, but oddly she felt that Anneke was on her side in a way that the old professor was not. He had fallen in love with Pappa and with Pappa's violin playing, and to him nothing else mattered. Pappa's music had touched some deep part of Dr. Sibelius's soul that nothing else did, perhaps not even his love for Anneke.

_Anneke hated Pappa as much as Pappa hated Paris_, Kristina thought, as the train, out of the city now, picked up speed. Anneke had not spoken a cross word to him directly, but she grew set and cold whenever she saw him go into that little room and close the door. There would be a few minutes of silence, and then the loveliest tune would creep through the keyhole and the crack under the door itself. Against her will Anneke would stand and listen. _It never occurred to me then why she did that, but it must have made her think of home, of Oslo, of the Northern Lights and the cold winters so biting that they were dry, unlike this filthy wet sleet and slush which covers everything around here in the Paris winter._ After listening, Anneke would shake her head and go into the parlor, to stab at her knitting as if the long needles could make Pappa come out of his room and look for work as a musician.

"Why can't he audition for one of the symphonies?" Anneke had asked her husband one Sunday, when the two of them would go out walking after returning from the Church of Sweden. The professor would only shake his head and sigh.

Another needle in Anneke's side was that almost immediately upon arriving in Paris, Pappa stopped going to the Lutheran church, and instead went to hear the Mass early in the morning, and not just on Sunday, but every day of the week as well. Then a few months later Pappa became a Catholic. Kristina had heard of Catholics in school in Uppsala, but there were so few in Sweden that she had never met any. If you were a patriotic Swede, you were a Lutheran, according to the teachers and pastors.

Whenever Pappa walked past Anneke in the cold early morning to go to Mass, it would set Anneke's face all cold as well. He talked of sending Kristina to school again, but this time he meant a Catholic girl's school, a small one run out of a tall narrow building, where the sisters and girls alike were all covered in long grey.

"He's her father, Anneke," Dr. Sibelius had said more than once to Anneke when her eyes flashed an especially cold blue over the question of school. The term had started, and Kristina still sat about the flat, or went shopping, or idly played in streets vacated by all the other school children. "He is the one with the right to determine which confession she professes, not us."

"You're the son of a pastor. Listen to you talk. Cornelius, he is deranged. He won't go out unless you force him, except to go to Mass. He won't audition. He won't even play on the street for pennies, as he did in Uppsala. Now he's succumbed to this religious mania, and insists on sending the girl to that convent school."

"We have to respect his wishes, Anneke."

"What respect does he show us? You act like his patron, as if we were nobility. Nobility! You are a schoolteacher. I translate newspaper articles, when I can get the work. We live in a two-bedroom apartment three stories up. I am not complaining, Cornelius. Money was never on my mind when I married you. But Sigurd Svensson acts like a child, instead of a grown man with a child of his own to raise, and it is as if we are the parents of two children, one of whom shows no sign of ever growing up."

So on it went. But Dr. Sibelius knew how to turn Anneke's indignation around with soft words and gestures, and gradually she came to accept first the girl's enrollment in the sisters' school, and then her baptism into the Catholic faith as well. One thing she never accepted, however, was Pappa's staunch refusal to enter the musical life of Paris.

For music was everywhere in that city. When Kristina walked home from the narrow grey school, trying at the end of the day to forget its petty rules and long, dour faces, the sound of an accordion or hand-held harmonium would waft past on the breeze. One day a tall, re-headed man with a wry expression passed her on the street, playing a mouth organ as he walked. He winked and turned around leeringly, making her blush so hard she ran the rest of the way home.

Besides religion, music was the heart of her new school, and not just folk singing or hymns either, as had been the case in Uppsala. The girls in grey learned the ancient chants of both West and East as one voice, or the nuns divided the classes up into parts for polyphony. When Kristina brought home some especially difficult melody to show Dr. Sibelius, Anneke's face grew soft and she would even say, "Now go teach it to your Pappa." Her father treated each new melody as a present, and needed to hear it only two or three times to master it.

In the last few years of his life, Pappa talked ceaselessly of angels. He claimed to see them everywhere; in the trees in the park near the apartment; perched on the roofs of buildings; sometimes sitting in the living room, where he insisted they watched him and applauded his playing. "I have no need for any other audience," he stated.

Other times, however, he would weep bitterly, claiming that no matter how well he played, Uriel himself sat listening in the room, but would not come up and cover him with his wing.

"Why not, Pappa?" Kristina asked once, only once.

"Because of my sins, child," he said bitterly. "Because of all my sins."

Kristina asked, "But what sins, Pappa? You're good. You don't shout, beat me, or drink wine except at dinner. What sins would make the Angel of Music ignore you?"

He only turned away, weeping harder, and she never asked him again.

Outside the train window, a light dusting of snow covered the frozen and bleak farmhouses and fields. Kristina hugged her coat tighter, pressing her face into the soft fur, and shivered on the hard bench. _I'm glad I let Anneke talk me into this beaver, she thought. It seemed like such an extravagance then, but not so much now._ The train slowed down to a crawl, then stopped. She handed the conductor her ticket but scarcely looked up; there would be many more stops throughout the day.

Pappa and Dr. Sibelius both liked to collect tunes, and from the old fiddlers' melodies Pappa would create improvisations of his own. Sometimes Kristina attempted to transcribe what he played, but it moved too quickly, and the melody was too complex to capture it. The more he lived in the world of the angels, the more heartbreaking, and beautiful his music became.

"Uriel will come to you someday, my child. I know he will. Unlike me, you are sinless, I know, except for that stain of original sin from which only the Blessed Virgin is free. Keep yourself pure, and the Angel of Music will touch you, as he refuses to touch me."

Kristina's own purity was seriously in doubt, or so she thought, as she made endless mischief at school, got smacked more than once by the nuns; daydreamed of Louvel's kisses, and couldn't decide whether she wanted to hug Anneke as if she were her own mother, or kick her under her skirts for her unkind remarks about Pappa.

Since Dr. Sibelius wasn't interested in teaching the young girl himself, Anneke took it upon herself to find Kristina a singing teacher, and she and Pappa got into a terrible argument about it.

"He must be a pure teacher, Anneke," Pappa insisted. "He cannot corrupt the girl in any way."

"Sigurd, I am the wife of a professor of music. Don't you think I can find a teacher for Kristina? She has a unique voice with a wonderful quality. If she is to prepare for advanced study in music, it must be someone who can nourish that quality. If not, she'll just end up sounding like everyone else."

"The National Conservatory and the New Music Institute are both full of corruption," he said darkly. "She might be tempted to go on the stage. All those women are wicked."

"And where did Kristina's voice come from, Sigurd? Did you make it, or did God? If you fail to teach it properly, how are you treating something that is a blessing from God?"

"I won't let her be corrupted," he insisted staunchly.

So they went on, back and forth, until one day Anneke came home and announced in an irritated voice to Pappa, "Sigurd, I've found a teacher for Kristina. She is a woman, so you can rest your fears about purity. She also teaches at the National Conservatory, so she knows what's required to enter, and she has agreed to an audition."

Pappa just looked sullen. Kristina said nothing, and prayed desperately that Anneke would not push him too far, into explicitly forbidding any music instruction at all. Anneke needed his permission, and he knew it. Then he cocked his head, as if listening to some voice or melody no one else could hear, and said resentfully, "Uriel says to let her go; that he will protect her, and take her under his wing. He says that no harm will come to her, and that I am being a silly old man."

"Well, that's a wise angel," Anneke said. She had learned that the best way to deal with Pappa was to not argue with his voices, if what they said made sense.

But before Kristina's lessons could begin, the lady in question ran off with a tenor and moved to Berlin, and so once again, Kristina was without instruction. Anneke in despair begged Pappa to let her study with an ancient man who had prepared more than a dozen girls for their New Music Institute entrance, and as he was almost eighty years old and could barely walk, much less seduce anyone, Pappa finally agreed.

The more Sigurd Svensson stayed inside that last winter, the worse his consumption became. Anneke finally won the battle and turned the sitting room into a makeshift bedroom for Kristina, who stayed healthy. The tuberculosis must have gone to his brain, however, because almost two weeks before Christmas in her sixteenth year, he dressed himself to go to Mass as usual, but took with him his violin. An unusually frigid wind swept through Paris, and an icy rain froze on the streets and fences and gates. No one noticed the missing violin until he failed to return from Mass.

Kristina waited in the apartment in case Pappa returned, while Sibelius and Anneke set off for St. Sulpice's. The priest told him that Pappa failed to show up at Mass that morning. A search of the neighborhood, and a long conversation with the local police yielded nothing. They had no interest in the disappearance of a man who normally never left his room except to go to Mass.

The next day brought a telegram from The Rising Sun, the only inn in the tiny town of Ploumanac'h. Pappa had collapsed in one of their outbuildings, with no coat or scarf, clutching his violin in its case. The innkeeper had recognized him from the family's previous summers in Ploumanac'h, and wired Dr. Sibelius. Because he was too ill to travel, the three of them went to Ploumanac'h in the middle of winter to care for him.

The bitter, freezing weather turned hateful as ice covered the train tracks. A day's train ride ended up taking almost two, and numb with exhaustion, the travelers waited at the station for another half day, until the weather broke enough for the stagecoaches to get through to Ploumanac'h.

The innkeeper had laid Pappa in a little back bedroom, and his wife stopped in to nurse him occasionally. The doctor had been sent for, but ice had delayed him outside of Lannion, and all that could be done was to wait for the priest to come to administer Last Rites.

The priest was young and kind, with short-cut thick blond hair and flushed pink skin. Pappa lay unconscious on the bed, too weak now to even cough. Kristina was fascinated by the young priest's thick brushy hair, and was glad that the young priest wouldn't ask her to make a confession, because she couldn't, not to him. She couldn't confess to a priest when she wanted to run her fingers through his hair.

Warm from the fire for the first time in almost three days, she had known suddenly that Pappa was going to die. Worse, she was glad that he was dying. _At least now I can begin to live in Paris_, she had thought. _Before, I wasn't living_. Then a chorus of voices rose up inside her clamoring_, Wicked girl, wicked and undutiful, can't you look at your father lying there, you should be ashamed of yourself. _

She started to sob, and Anneke led her out of the room. She could hear the priest chanting in the background as she leaned over a basin, but nothing came out. Back into the bedroom, the priest folded up his stole, and Pappa's eyes had sunk almost entirely into his head. Then, his chest gave a great convulsion, and he stared as if in horror at something on the other side of the room, but there was nothing there. He gave a great gasp, and a small spray of blood spewed forth from his mouth, dotting the bedclothes and the front of the priest's robes. Sibelius and the priest pushed him back onto the bed, and then tried to turn him on his side, but it was already too late. His face turned blue and his eyes bulged outwards. He attempted to take one more gasp for breath but could not; it was as if his chest had frozen into position. A small burp of blood poured from his mouth onto the pillow, and then he was still.

The young priest stood up and looked down at his spattered robes. Every desire Kristina had to touch his hair suddenly vanished. She stared coldly at him, thinking, _You're a priest. You're supposed to know what to do_, but he stood transfixed, with a frightened look on his face. Anneke held onto Kristina's arm in case she might faint, but Kristina had emptied herself of all emotion a few moments earlier. The two women trembled, looked into each others eyes. Both saw only relief, and guilt for that relief.

Sigurd Svensson was buried in the old churchyard, next to the chapel's ossuary. The gravedigger had to wait a few days, as the ground was too frozen to dig, but Pappa wasn't going to spoil in that weather. The priest had recovered himself, and kindly welcomed Anneke and Dr. Sibelius to the funeral Mass as well, even though they weren't Catholic. Kristina knelt on the bare earth floor, as brittle and lifeless inside as the Communion wafer which the priest placed on her tongue.

* * * * *

_What would Pappa think of Alberich?_ she wondered as the train lurched over a rough spot of track. _For that matter, what do I myself think about him? What do I want to happen? I have never had a lover, but if I wanted one, I suppose I could have one. But those men who show up at my dressing room door with flowers in hand don't want me; they don't even know me. They want a singer for a mistress. Well, let them go down the hall, because I don't want to be a mistress. What do I want?_

She mused over and over, as the train rocked gently toward the dark peninsula of northwestern of France. _Alberich dresses like a worker, but he doesn't act like one. He doesn't speak or act like anyone I've met in Paris so far. He shows so little feeling in his face, and his voice reveals emotion only when he sings; when he speaks, it's flat, even though it sounds warm. I have heard him laugh or joke so rarely,, and I've known him almost three months now. Not that it was much of a joke, actually. But his eyes are full of feeling, and although he won't look at me directly, he knows I'm there. Even if he says nothing, he fills the room. And how he moves, especially when he plays the violin. It's as if his whole body wants to swoop up and down with it, as if something outside of himself shakes him in this powerful way. Yet he doesn't fight it - there is nothing tight or restrained in the way he moves; even so, he holds it all in and lets only a fraction of it out. Then he moves his arm, or bends his head, and it's like a language all of his own, a beautiful poetic language of motion._

Suddenly Kristina became acutely aware of the train rumbling under her seat. _He doesn't bring me flowers, she recalled, or gifts of gloves or handkerchiefs. He has written me not a single love letter, or tried to kiss me. But he writes music for me. He's working on __Pappa's__ composition, making it more beautiful __than even Pappa could,__ because Alberich not only feels the music, even if it doesn't show on his face, he builds the music like a structure, where the notes are stones and the melodies are like arches or buttresses. _

_I know he thinks about me. He wouldn't look away from me if he were indifferent to me. His arm wouldn't shake so when I take it, the few times he's walked me home, or when I touched it a few days ago._

Kristina remembered once when Anneke had taken her to a grand fair in the heart of Paris, shortly after they had arrived. There was a great well of steel there called a gravity funnel, and children shot centimes into it. The little coins spun round and round on the edge, then headed down in a spiral toward the deep dark hole in the center. Kristina stared, fascinated, and then begged Anneke so hard to give her a coin that the normally tight-fisted older woman relented. So round her little coin went, until it too, like all the others, spun around the spiral ever faster, only to disappear into the black.

_He's like that_, she thought, _and I am like the little coin, spinning faster into the deep. He doesn't need to lure me with trinkets or letters. He is like that dark center of the funnel to which I am drawn._

The train lurched, and she started up from her half-dream. Only two more stops, and then they would arrive in Lannion.

A gray-moustached conductor with a round red face shook her shoulder. "Lannion, mademoiselle. You don't want to miss it."

Carpet bag firmly in hand, she searched up and down the dusty road for the Lannion stagecoach. Finally she saw it at the end of a row of carriages, its black leather no longer shiny, but cracked and patched. At first the stage driver didn't want to lift her bag onto the rack, but she stood obstinately, clutching her ticket, until he did.

The gentle hills covered with the skeletons of trees crawled past the window of the stagecoach. Each kilometer seemed to take a year as the stage shook with each rut and pothole. Kristina's companions, a weedy, stringy man in his fifties who diligently buried his face in something like a prayer book, and a fat middle-aged woman who glanced periodically over at her, only to sniff briefly with disapproval, stared out their respective windows as well. Both were met by friends or family at the tiny stage stop in front of the Lannion livery stable, but there was no one to greet Kristina, so she hefted her brocaded bag out of the luggage rack before the driver had a chance, and she made off on foot to the only nearby inn, the Rising Sun.

She was a peculiar sight in her dark fur coat, with Anneke's warm knit ski hat pulled down over her hair, and sturdy black walking boots underneath. The effect was decidedly un-chic, but it would have been a stony, difficult walk to the Rising Sun in the delicate pointed boots ladies sported in Paris. The late afternoon cold woke her up after so many hours sitting in coach or carriage, and her stretched legs creaked with thanks as she hiked up the rough path.

The innkeeper greeted Kristina warmly, a broad smile on her fat face. "Tea's just being served in the dining room, Mademoiselle," she said, and a fine tea it was, with bitter and bracing black tea, slices of salty ham, and thick black bread with fresh-churned butter. "Brittany cows hold up their own even in winter," Kristina remarked to the woman, and the innkeeper gave her another approving smile.

Outside little pellets of rain hit the slate tiles of the roof. The great room was almost deserted; only a few travelers came to Lannion and its surrounding region at this time of year. The fireplace was big enough for a small adult to crawl inside, and as Kristina surveyed the flames she wondered where Alberich was.

"The kitchen's closing, Mademoiselle," the innkeeper said as she cleared the remaining tables. "Would you like a hot water bottle to take to your room?"

Kristina nodded in agreement. Then, seized by boldness, she asked, "Would there be a gentleman from Paris staying here, by chance? Just recently arrived?"

The woman looked puzzled. "My husband might have met him if he'd come in last night, and then gone out again," she said. "But I don't think so. There are no single gentlemen here at the moment, and although one wired yesterday to say he would arrive from Paris, he hasn't shown up yet. Do you want me to tell you if one comes?"

Kristina's heart started to pound. "Please leave me a note if he does." The innkeeper nodded, her gesture discreet but her eyes inquisitive.

The flames wavered on, but the tired girl had no desire to move. _I wanted to sit and talk with him in this room_, she mused in front of the fire. _I wanted to ask him about Algeria, and what he spends so much time on when he's not working at the theater. If I told him about Pappa seeing angels and demons, which I've never told anyone, he would understand. Why isn't he here? He didn't promise to meet me here, but in the churchyard tomorrow, after the Mass. So where he is staying, if not here? This beautiful fire, this warmth, the gentle patter of rain outside, all of them wasted just on me alone._

Later, she took her candle and water bottle up the stairs to a narrow, cold bedroom along the outer walls of the Rising Sun, so glad to be out of Paris. The small room reminded her of the rooms in the farmhouse of her childhood, with thick ceiling beams and half-timbered walls covered with dark wood wainscoting. There was no gaslight at the Rising Sun, and no plumbing, only sheds out in back. That was nothing new to Kristina, as all through her childhood the choice was to either stick with cold to the wooden seat outside, or pull out the ceramic chamber pot from under the bed. She bent down to look beneath her tall four-poster bed, and there the rose-painted pot gleamed like an old friend.

The little flames of the charcoal fire seemed helpless against the thick cold. She moved aside the feather-rich comforter to warm a spot for her feet, and absently caressed its smooth, yielding surface. _What a pleasure this will be_, she thought, as its plumpness invited her in. She undressed as quickly as possible, bolted into the flannel nightgown and undid her hair under the covers rather than outside them.

Ah, bliss! Underneath the comforter was a featherbed, and she was Kay, deep in the icy embrace of the Snow Queen herself. Gradually the feathers warmed, and she rolled in tender luxury. Her hands found her breasts and she remembered what they looked like in the tight uplifted gala costume_. It would warm up so much faster under here if there were two, instead of one._

She stroked her breasts absently, and as the feathers waxed warmer still, in her imagination the Snow Queen's embrace changed to that of a man's, not that of smirking Riali, or Julian the carpenter with his big arms, or even the long-used and well-magnified thought of Louvel's last boyish kiss. Instead she settled on Alberich's broad shoulders, and the fine muscles of his arm that trembled whenever her hand rested on him. Then, sighing, she let her breasts go, and rolled around a long time before sleeping, not lonely exactly, but empty.

When Kristina awoke the next morning, the cold blue light made her think of ice, and indeed, it was colder than the night before. Outside the window, the trees glinted like tinsel.

All was quiet in the great room except for the snapping roar of a freshly made, hot fire. The innkeeper noticed her anxious expression and handed her a steaming cup of tea. Kristina looked first around the room and then down at her teacup in dismay.

"We're out of coffee," the innkeeper apologized. "It was to have come on the stage this morning, but they've been delayed by the ice. The driver won't risk his horses on that narrow road, and I don't blame him. No amount of coffee is worth a horse. Anyway, the tea's fresh and hot, and it'll get you on your way just fine."

"No, thank you; I'll have tea when I return from the chapel. They're saying a Mass for my father."

The innkeeper made the sign of the cross and said, "Quick release to the poor souls in Purgatory, then," and gave Kristina a sharp look. "I'll still look out for a note for you, Mademoiselle. It might be on the stage, or your friend himself might be. The stage will be a few hours behind, just till some of this ice warms off the road. Anyway, that's a well-used walk to the church, so it won't be too slick."

Kristina lingered in the fire's warmth as long as she could, and then set out for the small Norman chapel just outside of Ploumanac'h. The church was deserted except for a few old women in black, saying their rosaries. She adjusted her veil and pulled out Pappa's old rosary, but instead of beginning the prayers, looked over the beads silently. Each bead was like a tiny pale rosebud carved in ivory, and something from school in Uppsala came back to her about "vain repetitions" of prayers. So, she played with the beads and wondered if she shouldn't have sought the priest out for confession before Mass, remembering her hands running over her body the night before, and how she had savored the slow magic that changed them into someone else's.

The thought of Alberich's hands pushed itself to the surface once more before she could blot it out. Why should I blot it out? I want his hands on me. It's simple as that. Dr. Sibelius had said very little about Pappa's religious preoccupations, but he had said something once, an odd phrase. What was it? Ah, yes. "Those nuns at Kristina's school," Dr. Sibelius had said, "Those nuns compute the possibility of mortal sin with a meticulous calculus of despair." _ They didn't think I was listening, but I was. I didn't know what it meant at the time, but I remember Pappa's face when he said that. It looked like bread dough when you punch it down, and it all collapses._ _It's absurd. How much of this do I really believe? It was always Pappa's obsession, never mine._ Her stomach growled, and one of the old women glared at her with thin, hard lips squeezed tight. Kristina buried her head over the beads, trying to look pious.

After Kristina had been at the grey nuns' school for a while, Anneke had found her in tears one afternoon, collapsed in panic because she'd had some "wicked thought doubting the Catholic faith" and feared dying before she could get to the confessional. In a rare display of affection, Anneke pulled her into her arms and said quietly, "Do you feel how much I love you, Kristina? That's only a shadow of how much God loves you."

"But is it true?" Kristina had asked her back then. "Pappa wouldn't send me there if it wasn't true, would he?" Anneke buried her face in her hands, and it truly frightened the young girl, for Anneke almost never showed either anger or extreme affection. Then Anneke looked up and said calmly, "Some of it's true, and some isn't. Your Pappa isn't perfect, and neither is any other human being. All have sinned, and fallen short of the glory of God. I can't create faith in you, child. All I can tell you is what's in my heart. God isn't going to punish us for asking questions. Other people may punish us, but God won't. You know what a child of three or four is like. They never stop asking questions, not until their nurse pounds it out of them. Why do they do that? Because God made them that way. Hold to your faith, but ask questions. I can't tell you any more than that."

Strangely, it was a comfort to her back then. Later Anneke called Kristina over, and showed her a picture in her old Bible, of Jesus holding the children in his lap. One climbed over his shoulder, another wrapped himself around his feet. In the cold grey church, waiting for the Mass to start, Kristina once again felt herself resting against Lorello's comfortable chest, and envied Annarosa her right to lay her head there whenever she felt like it.

The priest came in and everyone rose for the Mass. _Enough of this, already, or you'll make yourself as crazy as Pappa._

After Mass, she looked anxiously around the churchyard, but other than the old women toddling off, and the sacristan, there was no one to be seen. A warm air had blown in from the sea and bumped into the cold blue of the morning, churning up a warm briny fog which rested in clots on the ground around the tombstones. It wasn't far to Pappa's grave. When she found the small iron cross, she laid on the ground before it the silk rose bouquet she had brought. The roses gleamed like pools of blood against the dirty ground. She thought about kneeling in the snowy grey mud to pray and then decided against it.

More fog rolled in. The church and bone yard faded into soft grey against white, and she told herself she'd been a fool. _There's nothing for you here but a box full of bones in the ground. There's nothing for you in Paris but more humiliation. _ "She sings as if she's newly fallen in love." What a mockery. She sat on a bench near the gravesite, silently arguing with herself, until she decided, _I'm not kneeling in that whitish mud, not even for you, Pappa. _

She remembered a soft, cold morning very much like this one when he came back from Uppsala, brown hair curling from the damp. Young Kristina ran to him expecting the usual treat. He was talking but she barely heard as she busily opened a blue and gold wrapped package full of velvet hair ribbons. Then his words penetrated the excitement of red and blue and green ribbons. We were moving to Uppsala. God was calling him to be a musician. He couldn't fulfill his calling on the farm.

"Why not?" she had argued. Leave the farm? "Mama's gone," he had said, and started to cry. She hated him for crying, because it was his way to get her to do what he wanted. "I won't go," she had said. It was too late, the deed's already been signed, he had replied. The bankers would have it anyway because he owed them so much money. "I've borrowed against it twice," he said, and she didn't know what that meant. Not at first.

_Why am I even here? What was the reason for all that senseless hopping, skipping, and jumping, from farm to Uppsala to Paris? There's really no reason, is there, any more than the 'man in the moon' is really a face? So here I am, alone on a God-forsaken spit of land, sitting here with my head in my hands, in front of an iron cross over a box of bones._

_I didn't really come for you, Pappa, did I? I know now why I came. But it didn't work out, did it? Now I might as well catch the train back to Paris._

She sat there until she couldn't feel her fingers anymore, and her feet grew numb and stiff. If she cried, the tears might freeze on her face, so she didn't. Then, just as she readied herself for the walk back to the Rising Sun, from far away, soft and then louder, came the pure and clear sound of a violin.

(_Continued_ …)


	12. The Rosy Coast

**The Rosy Coast**

Kristina looked around wildly, her face wet with tears. The fog was almost impenetrable now. The sweet tones of Pappa's cantata, the part where Christ says to the dead man, "Lazarus, come forth!" carried such promise that the dead themselves in the earth must have twitched their bones just a little. Slowly she rose to her feet, trying to find the source of the sound echoing off the trees and the tombs. The tune carried on until the last haunting tones of "Loose him, and let him go" crept up so high as to almost make the strings snap, so clear as to pierce the fog itself.

Then the fog did move aside as a grey figure came through it, holding his violin and bow. His face shone against the grey of his hat and coat, and as she looked upon its wavy scarred distortions, she felt not a trace of pity. At first it had seemed as if there was a mask of skin laid over his face like a disguise, one which could be pulled off to reveal the "real" and "normal" face underneath, the "beautiful" one. Now it no longer seemed like a mask or an aberration, but simply his face, the face of his birth. It wasn't that he was healed. Her sight was.

He put his violin in its case and looped it on a strap around his shoulder. She was too happy to speak at first.

He stood in front of Pappa's grave for awhile, not saying anything. Finally Kristina said, "I didn't think you'd come."

"Why wouldn't I? I said I would."

She tugged gently on the pack hanging off his other shoulder. "What's this?"

"It's our lunch. You should be hungry by now. Let's walk down by the sea."

They left the old graveyard with its iron crosses and piles of bones stashed in the ossuary, and embarked along a long, rocky path whose stones grew pinker and paler on the way to the ocean. She skidded a little on a fat stone, and he took her arm firmly in his. A colder wind had blown in from the English Channel, and much of the soft fog had lifted. The sea slapped against the rocks. Then Kristina clasped his hand, and he squeezed gently back, as before them opened up the wide rosy beauty of the Côtes-du-Nord. Alberich held her hand, and she ran her finger along the thick muscle on the back of his thumb before letting go.

"Which way?" she asked, as they came to the long beach stretching out in either direction. A little sun had come out, just enough to see a good portion of the grey sea.

"We'll draw lots." He picked up a pebble in one hand, shuffled the pebble behind his back and then held his closed hands outstretched. "Go ahead, you pick. Empty for the right, the stone for the left."

She clasped his left hand but he didn't open it, instead making her gently pry his fingers apart. In the work-rough palm rested the little pinkish-grey stone. "It's mine now," she said as she put the stone in her coat pocket. "So you know Ploumanac'h?" She was little breathless with the walking on sand, even the wet sand right where the shore met the sea. His strides were so much longer, but she meant to keep up.

"After the war, when my father and I had just returned from Algiers, I spent some time walking through this coastal country. Alphonse had gone back to Rennes and I wasn't ready to go to Paris yet. In Algiers, I was never alone. We shared quarters, and as a youth, I wanted some privacy. For years, we worked together by day, and lived in the same apartments by night. It wasn't that he was afraid for me, on his own safety. I don't think Alphonse was afraid of anything in his life. It's as if he didn't know the concept of danger, the feeling behind it. But the other engineers and builders prevailed upon him to keep a close eye on me. The slave markets of the Ottoman Empire were busy all year round, and they fished in the waters of Algeria as well. Young American and European Christians commanded a high price. I didn't roam much through Algeria, actually, because of that.

"When we got back to France, I promised myself I would wander, and so I did, for several months along this coastline, with a bedroll, a pack, and my violin. I walked as far along the sea as I could. When I went into a town, it was to exchange work for a meal and a corner of the barn or stable."

"It sounds terribly lonely."

"Not at all. If you play the fiddle and are willing to work, the farmers around here are kind. It's where I met M. Guilliard and his wife. I stay with them when I'm here. This morning I chopped ice off their flagstones, and mucked out the stable. There are only two horses, so it wasn't bad. But years ago, I wanted to run back to Rennes, if only for what passed for company with Alphonse."

"Why do you call him Alphonse? It sounds as if he were not your father at all."

He bent down to retrieve a few stones from the water's edge. "I don't know. He was a strange father. I used to think I was invisible, really invisible, because when I'd come up to him, it was as if he didn't see me at all. He'd be immersed in a drawing, or writing up some specifications, or outside repairing a fence or a roof, and would entirely ignore me, even if I called to him. But if I picked up a pencil or a chisel, he would turn these eyes like searchlights on me, sit me beside him, and talk to me about his work exactly as if I were one of his workmen. Then, when I had to leave to wash up or eat or go to bed, he would turn away, and I could swear that he had totally forgotten about me.

"He never swore at me or beat me as other boys' fathers did. He literally showed no awareness of me at all unless I took an interest in his work. You can imagine that I learned pretty quickly what to do to get his attention. It really wasn't like having a father at all, but in some ways he was more of a father than any other of the fathers I observed, because he looked at everything that interested him with a fearful and complete attention. Once you entered that gaze, nothing you did could escape him.

"When I was very little, I used to imagine that someone had left me at our house, on the back steps, and that he happened to be the one to find me."

"I used to think that, too," she said. "Pappa used to say I was a changeling, but like no changeling ever before seen, because I got sweeter with each year. It was all nonsense, because everyone knows that changelings get paler and weaker and nastier as time goes on."

She ran along that region of the shoreline just barely wetted by the waves, dodging the lazy grey tide that lapped back and forth over the coral-tinted beach. Then he came up beside her and threw some of the stones into the water. A few gulls came down to fight over a dead fish, and far out on the wide expanse, dark flickers moved on the surface of the cloudy sea.

"Look," he said, pointing to a little cove almost like a tiny fjord, with a large flat prominence resting above it. "It's a good place to stop."

Up they climbed. He brushed as much sand off the pink stone as he could, and spread out the contents of his pack - a large flask of light beer; some brown bread; a piece of hard cheese, and some apples.

"Where did you learn to play the violin?" Kristina said. "This cheese is good, by the way."

"It's Guilliard's, made of sheep's milk. I told the good wife I was meeting a lady for lunch, and so she packed one for me. But the violin, that was from a young age. The gypsies used to camp outside Rennes, very near our house. They liked to stay near the woods to the south. I would sneak out at night and hide on the outskirts of their camp, listening to them play, watching them dance. One of the men caught me one night, and dragged me into their circle. I couldn't have been more than eight or nine. They were going to thrash me, but this old woman with a velvet patch over one eye made them stop. I couldn't understand their speech, but it was obvious when they got out a large leather whip and shook it at me.

"When the women got a good look at my face, they started spitting and making the evil eye sign. I had no chance of running, as two big men held me by either arm. Then the old woman came up to me and ran her hands over my face. I don't think anyone had touched me there since I could remember. She smoothed back my hair and then argued with the big man with the whip. He came over to me and in broken French wanted to know what I was doing, why I was spying on them, and so on.

"I told them I wanted to hear them fiddle and play their tambourines. I must have said it like I meant it, because he put down his whip and said, 'Let him stay.' Then he looked at me, saying that the old woman was his mother and he respected her words, even if he sometimes thought she was touched in the head.

"All that night I listened and night after night, as long as they were encamped in the woods. I found that if I listened to their speech long enough, I could piece parts of it together. One evening I came up to one of the fiddlers and said in clear Romany, 'Teach me how to do that.' He practically fell off the barrel on which he sat. He told one of his sons to bring him the old violin, and he put it in my hands. I had watched, but watching isn't the same as doing, and the first notes I played made the musicians all laugh. 'Show me,' I insisted. 'Show me what to do,' and surprised, they did.

"I went home and told Alphonse that I wanted to buy a violin from the gypsies. My mother overheard and said, 'Perhaps they'll take him with them when they go,' and Alphonse rose and towered over her. I had never seen him angry; in fact, I'd really never seen any expression on his face at all except intense concentration. 'Leave the room,' he said to me, and I ran into the bedroom, but peeked out through a crack in the door.

"In a calm, conversational voice he told my mother that if she ever said anything like that again, and if he heard it, he would beat her until she couldn't walk. He towered over her, tall and terrifying. The ice in his voice was far worse than any bullying. It occurred to me that I should be angry with him for threatening to beat my mother, but all I felt was fear of Alphonse, and it was something new. I'm sorry to say that I wished he would have beaten her, because her cutting, biting remarks never stopped when he was gone, and she had just slipped enough to let one loose in his presence."

The beer went to her head a little more than it should have. She took up his hand and squeezed it, hard, so that he looked over in surprise at her ferocity. "Did she stop? Did he make her stop?"

"It worked," he said, "but at least insults are better than no attention whatever. After that she barely spoke to me at all, unless she had some work for me to do. But Alphonse gave me some money, and I bought the violin from the gypsy musician. All that summer I went back to the camp every night, and for years afterward, until the bishop at Rennes preached so vehemently against them that they stayed away."

"Didn't your father worry that they would take you? People are usually terrified of gypsies."

"Something I learned later about Alphonse - he had very little imagination. No, that's not right; he was highly creative. He could imagine exactly how a structure needed to go together, and when he drew up an engineering sketch, it was as if he was copying something that hung in the air before him. But imagining what people might or might not do, that was beyond him. He was brave. I saw him almost kill a man who tried to grab me in one of the _souks_ in Algiers, when we'd first arrived, but he didn't anticipate danger, probably because he never thought at all about human motivations, about why anyone would do anything in which he himself had no interest." He gently disentangled his hand from hers, and sliced some more cheese.

"So you learned just from the gypsies?"

"There was a German in Algiers, an engineer whose specialty was concrete. He was the closest I'd ever seen Alphonse come to having a friend. He played the violin beautifully, and for a few years he taught me, until he went back to Berlin."

The sun made a smudgy white disk through the fog. His voice was like a caress. When he was done saying something, he fell silent and looked out over the ocean, sitting completely still. She racked her brains to ask him something else, just to hear him speak again. "So you're staying with a farmer named Guilliard? No wonder I didn't see you at the Rising Sun. There is really only one inn in Ploumanac'h, and as of last night, you weren't there. You'll have to thank his wife for me; her cheese is excellent and so is the beer."

"Would you like to thank her yourself? I think they'd like it if we went by. They're both old. One son is in Wales, and the other died in the war."

She crossed herself and said, "I'd like to meet them. Can we see the horses?"

"I have the run of the stable when I'm there. It's where I slept last night."

He turned a little pink, afraid he'd gone too far. Kristina saw him rolled up in a blanket, resting on the straw, with the warmth and whinnying of horses around him, his face all relaxed in sleep, the hat pulled down over his head for warmth. Indeed he had a few scraps of straw on his coat that he must have forgotten to brush away that morning.

She picked the straw bits off his sleeve. "I miss horses. More than anything about Sweden and our farm, more than anything else I loved and remembered, I miss our horse Parla. She was a black Norwegian draft, so gentle that when I was five years old, I could sit astride on her back, and she wouldn't let me fall. I remember the day she was sold. I went into her stall and wouldn't come out until Pappa picked me up, screaming that he'd killed her. He hadn't, but he might as well have."

His face was expressionless save for his sympathetic eyes, which looked out at the almost colorless ocean. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to be so … unrefined when we talk. But you have a way of bringing things up to the surface in me. When I'm with you, I feel like I can say anything, and more often than not, I do."

"Kristina, I want to hear everything you have to say, not just the social niceties. I'm not a conversationalist. I don't make clever patter so that the ladies will swoon. I just want to hear you." Then he took her hands again, engulfing hers entirely in his, so that they were swallowed up entirely. She felt as if she could crawl around inside the cave of his hands, and nestle down in there. She sighed in contentment. So rough from work his hands were, and too thick to be a musician's, and yet not too thick at all_. His fingers may be wide around at the base, but when he plays they move like lightning up and down the strings. Beautiful hands._

"I get so many compliments in the course of a week. I don't even bother to count them anymore. But none of them measured up to what you just said. You know, I just want to hear you too."

He pulled her over close to him, and as they sat quietly, looking out at the sea, Kristina wondered what those dark shapes were out there, playing just on the edge of sight. If she reached in her bag for her spectacles, she could see them, but that would mean moving out from under the warm weight of Alberich's arm.

Then he squirmed a little, and pulled himself up, saying, "Let's go pay our respects to Mme. Guilliard. We picked the right direction to go on the beach, and it's not far from here. Are you up for a walk?"

"I could walk all day and into the night. When we first came to Paris, Anneke knew a lady who kept a squirrel as a pet, in a little wire cage. I used to feel so sorry for the poor little thing."

"The lady, or the squirrel?"

"Alberich, you made a joke, and not just any joke, but the kind of silly joke Anneke and I started when I was a little girl. I'll have to write it down in my daybook. Anyway, this poor squirrel would run back and forth in its cage, over the same path, endlessly. I wondered if it would collapse from exhaustion. The lady didn't seem concerned when I mentioned it to her. That's how I feel sometimes in Paris, like that squirrel, going from home to school, then to conservatory, then the theater, then back again, with occasional side trips to the market. In a way, the entire Eclectic Theater itself feels like a larger kind of squirrel cage, and inside it I run around, again, on my little predetermined route. But up here, I could wander anywhere, as long as my legs can carry me. I feel as if I've been let out of a cage."

"I do, too." He thought a minute, then said, "So you keep a journal?"

"Not really. I was joking."

"I write in mine nearly every day, or I've tried to, for the past four years. Even if it's just a few sentences."

She came alert with curiosity. "Girls scribble all the time, but I've never heard of a man who wrote. Other than books, I mean."

"It clears the head," he said, and then fell silent. He picked up the red-checkered napkins in which the lunch had been wrapped, and finished the last of the beer.

The wind had died down and a pearly luminescence hung over the entire strand as they climbed back up the gentle bluff. "It's shorter to go across that long run of boulders," he said. "Think you're up for it?"

The great lumps of rock near the seashore looked like balls cast down by children who were tired of play and who forgot about their toys, leaving them strewn all around. Kristina pulled up her skirts to keep them out of the way, and caught him looking more than once at her black-stockinged ankles, then quickly turning away. _You're shy. Not too shy to hold my hand, or call me Kristina, or talk bluntly about things people never discuss with each other, but shy when it comes to my ankles._ He had already sprung to a high round rock, and she held up her hand to him.

Panting, he pulled her up over the last of the great stones, and there was a rough path through a copse of small trees, bent by the sea-winds. At the end of the path was a small farm-house and two larger outbuildings, one obviously a stable, for a small light draft horse stood stolidly in the pen outside, and the other a barn. A stout, grey woman came to the gate and waved.

"Do you understand the tongue of Bretagne?" Alberich asked Kristina.

She nodded. "I learned it from the servants, when we'd come here in the summers. I can speak a little of it, too. Do they understand French at all?"

"Some. I can fill in the gaps if need be."

They entered the neatly-swept yard. "Mme. Guilliard, please meet Mlle. Sigurdsdotter," Alberich said, molding the rolling, Welsh-sounding words with his tongue, and the woman nodded and gave a small curtsy.

"Very pleased, I'm sure," she answered, giving Kristina a long and full accounting with her eyes. "A lady from Paris, is she?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Kristina answered. "My father is buried over at the Ploumanac'h churchyard, and I heard Mass for him this morning."

The farm wife's eyes widened at the sound of her own language. Out of respect, she crossed herself and said, "If I'd known that M. Niemann here was entertaining a Parisienne, I'd have made him something a little fancier to take along."

"Oh, no, what you made was the best I've had in a long time. I grew up on a farm, and I know what good cheese is like. You can taste the summer in yours."

Mme. Guilliard smiled broadly. Alberich handed the napkins and beer flask to her. Kristina said, "Wait, let's have the apple cores, for the horses."

"So thoughtful," Mme. Guilliard said. "They'll like that."

The gelding ran free in the paddock, and when he saw the man and woman, he came up and nickered gently, taking one of the apple cores from the flat palm of Kristina's outstretched hand. He sniffed around, but when it was clear there was no more, moved off to look for the few patches of green left in the sludgy ground.

Into the stable they went, and Kristina closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. She hadn't been in one since her first day at the Eclectic Theater, and could almost taste the smells: rich hay, horse sweat, the thin cool smell of straw, and the acrid sting of urine. There were four stalls, but only one was occupied. "She's foaling," Kristina cried. "Can I see her?"

"I don't know if you should. She's been skittish even with Guilliard, and stomped a bit at me this morning."

"Oh, please let me see her. If she twitches, I'll leave her alone. Here, give me her curry brush. What's her name?"

"Dwyn."

The mare reared back a little when she saw Kristina, who repeated her name softly, and showed her the brush. When the mare calmed down, Kristina gently brushed her shoulder, down to her big belly. Slowly she stroked, over and over, and said to Alberich, "Maybe she'd like her apple now," so he gave it to her, and she calmly crunched it as the brush went over her flanks.

He came in the stall with her, then, and together they both curried her. Kristina put her hand on the mare's swollen belly, and then gasped at the kick of the unborn foal. "Oh, come here," she whispered to Alberich, not wanting to alarm the mare. "You can feel the little one."

So he put his hand near hers, and the skin of the mare's stomach jumped as the foal inside turned and twitched. Alberich's face grew soft and he caressed the mare's stomach gently. Kristina put her face down onto the mare's side and tears stung her eyes. It overwhelmed her, the thought of the little life kicking and squirming inside, and that Alberich felt it too.

"Kristina," he said tenderly, and neither of them knew what to do at that moment, both their hands on the pregnant mare, the life pouring off of her into them both. Alberich stood so close to her that she could see the worn rough suede of his coat, the metal shining through the torn leather of the buttons.

A loud wet noise made them both start. The mare dropped her load of "horse apples" right onto the straw, and Kristina laughed, then Alberich followed with his deep laugh, from the center of his chest. _Amazing. I wondered if I'd ever hear that, and over the most common sight imaginable._

"Goodbye, Dwyn," she said as Alberich took the currying brush and put it back with the others. He was unsure, the insecure tenderness rolling off him just like the warmth off the mare. Something happened, and neither of them knew what to do or say now. She couldn't look at him, fearful of what her face might show.

Out in the yard, Mme. Guilliard was nowhere to be seen. Alberich led the gelding into the stable, and brought the mare out into the pen, and patted her gently on the rear on her way out to graze. He came out with a large shovelful of the mare's manure, walked it over to a composting stack, and threw it in neatly. _Even when he's pitching manure, he's graceful_.

They watched the mare lazily root for the stubbly winter grass, as the sun made long shadows from the west. "It's a long walk back to the Rising Sun," he said presently. "Should we start out?"

"You know, on the way back is the old house we used to rent during the summer. Since we've gone west, it should just be just down the old Ploumanac'h road, heading back to town. Can we stop by? I want to see it, it's been so long."

It was cold outside the sheltered yard of the Guilliard farm as the wind swept up across the old road, rutted and mostly grown up with brown weeds. Kristina pulled out her woolen ski hat and he took it, saying, "Let me." He admired the hat for a moment. "Beautiful workmanship. So soft."

"My Anneke made it. She knits like one of those new machines, and makes the most elaborate patterns. I'm working on just a two-color one now, and it's enough of a challenge."

He placed the hat on her, and his hands lingered for a moment on the way down_. He's going to kiss me. There's a kiss hanging on his mouth right now_, and in confusion she turned away. "It feels like no time at all has passed," she said. "This road's exactly as I remember it." She walked quickly up the path, where the lengthening trees looming leaflessly on either side. She chattered without thinking, "Louvel and I used to run this way back and forth every day, down to the beach …"

"Who's Louvel?" he asked without expression.

"A boy who came here for the summers, starting when I was twelve. He was almost fourteen, with only one brother, but one so much older that Louvel might as well have been an only child. His family sent him here with a governess and a tutor for the summer. They had a small chateau on the way to Lannion."

"Is there any such thing as a small chateau?"

Kristina laughed nervously. "He hated it there. His governess was English, and very strict. His tutor was almost deaf and never held him to his lessons, so Louvel came to our house and we played together. Pappa tried to teach him the violin, but he didn't want to practice, and I think he was mostly tone-deaf. I hardly ever played with other children, and it was a new thing for me to have a companion, someone to play with every day. I missed him terribly when the summers were over."

"So what was your favorite game?"

"He liked to go hunting the fairies. I started it, I'm afraid. When I was little, I was convinced I saw fairies, and I told him so. Even now, I won't say that I didn't. It seems disrespectful to deny it if you think you did, after all. But he couldn't let go of the idea. We would go out in the twilight and he would look and look. It frightened me a little, because I knew from all of Pappa's stories that you don't go looking for the Other Folk; it's like looking for trouble.

"One evening on the beach I did see something that looked like a seal coming up out of the water, all slick and round, and then it looked to me just like a woman, with long snaky hair like seaweed. I called quickly to Louvel to come over and see, but while he stared at her a few moments, he finally said that he saw nothing, and then accused me of teasing him. With a few rolls through the waves she disappeared. I was afraid to run down to the water, for fear she would catch me and carry me off. He called me a baby, and I started to cry."

The sea was just barely visible, grey against grey. The fog had long since lifted, but the leaden sky hung overcast. Even if Kristina couldn't see it, she knew the sea was there, with its faint gray smudge moving behind the darker grey blurs of the trees in front of it. Alberich said nothing, but rested his arm protectively around her shoulder, and she nestled in a little.

"The next day," she went on, "he forgot all about his remarks, and we continued playing as if nothing had happened. The other thing we liked to do was listen to Pappa tell folk tales and stories from his childhood, or from the Eddas, or from the Greek myths. Once I asked Louvel, 'Don't you do this at home?' I couldn't believe that other families didn't sit around the fire at night, with their Pappas alternately playing the fiddle, and then telling another story about a troll who ate all travelers down to their shinbones.

"He said that at home, his governess would pack him off to bed, which didn't matter to him. His older brother was hardly ever home, and when he was, he brought home his friends and they would spend the evening smoking cigars and talking about politics. Sometimes he would hide at the top of the stairs to listen, but it was boring, so he spent many of his hours reading, and dreaming of when he would be big enough to go into the officer corps of the Army, and get away."

"What became of him?" he asked.

"He grew up," she said coolly. She didn't want to tell him about her last meeting with Louvel, or that he had tried to linger in her dressing room after her gala faint, or that he now wrote stiff, formal, imploring letters. "He stopped believing in fairies, and I didn't. It was simple as that." Alberich didn't say anything, and finally she said in a small voice, "Do you think I'm being foolish, to still insist that I did see something?"

His eyes went far away, and he said absently, lost in his own thoughts, "It's not foolish at all." Then he embraced her, close and fervent this time.

The old Ploumanac'h road widened, and there on the right, almost entirely obscured by leafless trees, stood the old summer house, empty and shut up tight. Brown vines covered its stone fence and old wooden gate, which still had a thin coating of bright blue paint. Those vines would spring to life in the summer, covered with fragrant white blossoms, but now they clung still and lifeless to the stone.

"It looks smaller than I remember it," she remarked, and he gently stroked her shoulder just as he had moved his hand on the mare's stomach, smoothing and soothing.

It was by this very gate that she and Louvel had said goodbye all those summers ago, when he gave her his shy little kisses. But it wasn't summer; she wasn't a girl anymore, and the long arm draped heavily across her shoulder was not Louvel's. She slipped her arm around Alberich's back, over the bulk of his thick leather coat, suddenly feeling very sleepy and warm_. We could go inside the house. If it's still the same landlady, she lives in Ploumanac'h and won't come out here. Just for a little while. We could light a fire, and it would be warm. Very warm_.

He rested the side of his head lightly against hers, smelling a little of horse, the beer, and some other indefinable scent that sent a shock of pleasure from her knees up to her hips.

A little bit of sun broke through the clouds, just enough to cast faint shadows around the house. The sun was far down the sun in the west, and there was still a long way to go back to Ploumanac'h, to the Rising Sun.

He loosened his arm. "It's not the same, is it?"

"There were flowers everywhere in the yard," she said as if far away in a dream. "We didn't plant them and I don't think the landlady did, either. Anneke would hang our wash out in the back, on a line, and I'd run in and out between the sheets like a little girl. The cats that lived in the woods beyond the house would come in every morning looking for scraps, and I was always afraid they'd eat the cream I'd set out for the brownie that lived out in the shed, in back. I loved it, Alberich. I loved it because it reminded me of home. But now it just looks like an old, shuttered house."

"It hasn't changed. It's just sleeping, ready to be awakened again with the summer."

"But not for me. Not here."

"If not here," he said, "then someplace else."

They walked the way back to Ploumanac'h mostly in silence, holding hands in the still of the twilight. By the time they reached the road that branched off to the Rising Sun, she knew all the tiny calluses right below his finger joints, and the thicker ones on the tips. Her own fingers had traveled a dozen times around the robust muscles that surrounded his thumb, both above and below, while his own thumb explored the far more fragile skin at her wrist. She closed her fingers tightly around the heft of his thumb, and beneath the muscle beat a pulse, strong and slow. He had callous ridges on his palm, too, right below the fingers, and what felt like a scar across the outside of the palm. Then after the exploring, he just held her hand securely within the paw of his own, and while her hand was still, her heart fluttered like a finch in a cage.

The shadows were almost purple now, and faintly up the road shone the lights that led up to the inn. "Will you stop in?" she asked. "The supper there will be very good."

"I wish I could. But I need to be back to Guilliard's for evening chores."

"When are you going back to Paris?"

"I catch a very early train, but I'm stopping off at Rennes," he replied, and her heart caught in her throat. "There's some business I have to attend to there."

"How long will you stay?"

"It's hard to say. At least a week, maybe a little longer. When I come back we'll meet again on the first early morning that you have."

He moved away, but slowly, as if he didn't want to, and then folded his long arms around her, pressing her to the padded front of his coat. In the rough suede she hid her face, not wanting to let go, not wanting to move, feeling very small inside his arms. Then he took her face into one of his hands, his palm almost scratchy against her cheek. The top of his face was in shadow, but a little light played on his half-opened mouth, and the kiss on his lips hung soft and full there, waiting to be taken.

A shout came from the Rising Sun, a dog yelped. A boot hit flesh, making a loud thump, followed by a curse.

"The landlord," Kristina said, almost laughing. "Why he keeps a dog that keeps biting him, I don't know."

"For the entertainment, perhaps," he said, gently touching her mouth with his finger. "Until I see you again in Paris, Kristina," and he slipped off into the deep indigo of the night.

She walked up the gravel lane to the Rising Sun very slowly, not wanting to lose a fragment of the evening. Glow from the lamps filled the windows, and savory smells of bread and fish wafted outside. Inside were bowls of stew, flagons of beer, hot tea before the enormous fire of the great room, and then off into the enticing arms of that featherbed.

There in the doorway stood the landlord, caressing his heavy shin, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry you had to hear that, Mademoiselle. But you will be glad to know that your gentleman from Paris finally arrived, and he's waiting for you inside."

She stopped cold. "Excuse me?"

Her face in the lamp glow must have amused him, for he laughed from down inside his fat stomach. "Perhaps Mademoiselle has two gentlemen from Paris, eh? This one's been in and out, waiting for you all day. I thought he was going to wear a hole in the floor pacing back and forth." Then he added, "Sometimes the one you look for isn't always the one you get. Say the word, Mademoiselle, and he's gone, silk top hat or no. I won't have gentlemen bothering my ladies."

"It's all right. I'll go have a look at him."

She took a breath and entered the inn. Someone leapt up from one of the large leather chairs and called out loudly, "Christine!"

It was the Vicomte Louvel de Coucy.

(_Continued_ …)


	13. The Face in the Moonlight

**The Face in the Moonlight**

Louvel stood up but promptly dropped his gloves, and as he bent over to pick them up, Kristina desperately collected her scattered thoughts. _What is he doing here?_ Then it came back to her. The letter, of course. He did take it as an invitation. The landlady watching watched them from a corner of her eye, wiping a counter. Her husband came in through a side door, and from the kitchen came stifled laughter.

Louvel held out his hand, expecting Kristina to offer her own. As he lowered himself to kiss her hand, never taking his eyes off her face, she got her first good look in six years at her summer seaside companion.

His white-blond hair had darkened to a light chestnut combed back behind the ears, with a lighter silky moustache over his peach-plump mouth. He rose from the kiss, but wouldn't let her go, so she slowly pulled her own hand out of his soft, cold grasp. Louvel whirled around to pull out a chair for her, and looked crestfallen when she said, "Monsieur de Coucy, you must excuse me. I have to go to my room to freshen up and get ready for supper."

"You'll have it with me, won't you? I've waited all day for you to return. Where have you been, anyway? The Mass for your father ended at midmorning. The stage was late; I'd just gotten off and …"

She held up a hand to interrupt the torrent of words. "Yes, I'll join you for supper. But you must excuse me now, for I must go upstairs," and with that, she virtually bolted through the dining room and up the dark narrow staircase.

One of the pleasures of the Rising Sun was that no one had to dress for the evening meal. As Kristina combed her hair, washed her face, and brushed the sand and a few fallen leaves off her dress, she thought back to her last visit with Louvel.

After that golden summer of her twelfth year, when she and Louvel had roamed all over the Ploumanc'h coast, she had returned to Lannion or Ploumanac'h for others, but Louvel took the season elsewhere with his family, and she did not see him. The Sibeliuses rented the same stone cottage with the overflowing garden off the old road. Summers weren't quite the same as she approached her fifteenth year, though. Pappa's coughing had turned to spitting blood, and Anneke had to engage a servant to chop wood and carry water, and the serving-man's wife helped with the laundry.

Dr. Sibelius wandered around Ploumanac'h most of the day with his pad and pencil, collecting folk tunes and songs from the old people. Anneke prevailed on Kristina to help, but for the first time Kristina wanted to stay in Paris that summer, and so fed the wood stove or chopped vegetables in a sulky, contradictory way. Ploumanac'h suddenly seemed too small, too boring, with nothing but the endless woods and seaside. The enormous pink boulders used to provide endless hours of climbing fascination, but now she had no more interest in them. She had just started wearing corsets, long skirts, and pinned up her hair.

Everything was strange and different inside, too. In summers past her lanky body had nothing to corset in, but in one season, it seemed, she grew new curves and swellings that bumped and made her clumsy. Anneke knitted thick pads out of cotton yarn and showed her how to use them, but Kristina still cried almost all day when Anneke explained what her courses were, and that they would go on every month, for ever so long, until she was grey-haired and wrinkled like Anneke herself. Anneke made teas of willow-bark, or valerian, or cramp-bark, brought hot water bottles and encouraged the miserable girl to walk rather than lie in bed like so many did, and while these remedies eased the bodily pain, they did nothing for the black hulking anger inside her soul.

Kristina wanted as little to do with Pappa or the Sibeliuses as possible. Her fifteenth summer was one without sun, it seemed, for almost every day dawned whitish-grey, and the sunset which normally made the seaside boulders glow with coral flames was instead thick and purple, and both ocean and shore looked as flat and dull as her life. Even in the fog or clouds, however, she went down to the docks to watch the boats, or (as she wouldn't admit to herself) to watch the fishermen.

At twilight the fishermen were gone home to their cabins and chowders, but Kristina stayed on the dock or on the rocks that jetted out to the sea. Sometimes she sang Pappa's melodies, or sometimes the Professor's _lieder_ or _chansons_, but most often chants without words came up from inside. Louvel used to be the one who always wanted to go fairy hunting, but now it was she who called for the sea-people, wanting to see something, anything.

At the thought of a man from the sea, her ears grew red and her heart filled with a feeling strange and new, one that made her want to leap out of her uncomfortably long dress and into the sea that very moment. He would be massively muscled like one of those marble statues at the Louvre, and he would stride out of the surf clad only in seaweed and long green hair, to carry her under the waves.

One lavender evening she sang on and on as fully as she could, until she stopped in shock, because a strange sound came up from the surf. Kristina was answered. It wasn't the wind, for at evening-tide there was almost none. The slap of the waves was too low-pitched, and not another soul trod the beach.

It was a song from the sea, far off and faint. She squinted out over the water and wished she hadn't been so vain, and had gotten those blue-steel spectacles about which Anneke always nagged. Blurry, indistinct, out on the waves two forms rolled, and then a shaggy, weedy head rose above the water. Like someone dreaming, Kristina removed her shoes and walked into the strand, not caring that her dress soaked up the water. The waves came up around her knees but she dared go no further, for if the skirt got too heavily waterlogged, she could get dragged in. So she hitched her skirt up higher and stood knee-deep in the waves, while the rolling forms moved through the purple sea.

From the shaggy head far out from shore came a soft deep chant that carried over the foam right up to the shoreline. Eyes glittered green in the dying light.

The two of them stared at each other for some minutes, each in their elements, and for a quick moment Kristina weighed the cost of drowning. Would it be worth it to really see them up close for just a few minutes, before taking in a huge lungful of water and sinking to the bottom? What more proof did she need? She always knew they were there, even if Louvel didn't believe her; even if Anneke would never say exactly what she thought; even if Dr. Sibelius ignored her, even if Pappa thought that anything not an angel had to be a demon.

_Thank you_, Kristina sang back. _Thank you_.

The dark wet head slid beneath the waves. Something out there rolled around like seals, then disappeared into the deep. Kristina backed out of the ocean slowly, thinking that perhaps she could live in this new world of corsets and pads and restrictions after all, as long as somewhere the sea-people swam and sang.

When Kristina made it back to the cottage, the lamps were already lit and Pappa came to the door in an agitated fuss. "Where have you been?" he cried. "It's already dark. You can't wander about like a child now; you're not a child anymore," all punctuated with coughs and gasps.

Anneke said merely, "Go soak that dress before the brine dries on it. Sigurd, sit down, or you'll give yourself a hemorrhage. Kristina's not a child, and that's why she can go down to the beach if she wants to without us falling on our faces over it."

"There are men on the beach," Pappa muttered darkly. "Girls aren't safe."

"Well, I'm safe here," Kristina snapped. "Safe to die of boredom. Safe to sit around and have tea parties."

Anneke looked stricken. "Kristina, don't quarrel with your Pappa. He's not well."

"You think I'm well? I'm not well either. I'm sick, so sick that tonight I thought about throwing myself in the ocean. I don't want to be here. I could have stayed in Paris. I'm fifteen. Anneke, you told me yourself that you were thirteen when you went to work as a lady's maid in Oslo. She taught you to read and write and made you her personal secretary. Why do you both treat me like a child?" Kristina stamped her feet before stalking off to the wash-house.

Pappa knew better than to quarrel with Anneke, so all was quiet when Kristina returned to the cottage after rinsing and hanging the dress. Neither of the men were anywhere to be seen. One look at Anneke's face told Kristina that she was in for a lecture, but instead Anneke sat down slowly and passed to her a cup of tea. Kristina waited for the explosion, but no storm of words broke. "Where's Pappa?" she finally asked.

"Cornelius and he have gone to listen to this old man who has a tune supposedly from Wales, from Queen Matilda's reign. Cornelius wants to use it in a paper he's writing for the Folk Music Academy."

"Is this why we come here every summer? So he can collect music for his papers?"

Anneke's eyes turned to ice, and Kristina knew she skated on the thin edge of it. Her school friends' fathers would have thrashed their own daughters for talking as she did, but there was no one in the cottage to thrash Kristina.

"We come here," Anneke said coldly, "because it reminds Cornelius and me of home. You and Sigurd are along for the ride." Then she sighed heavily and said, "Kristina, there's no use fighting with your Pappa. You want to grow up, and that's good. But with growing up comes the sour as well as the sweet, and I have something sour to tell you. Your Pappa is sick, very sick with consumption. I know he's been hard to live with. I have been terrible to him sometimes, myself. But no one knows how much time they have on this earth, and that's why we try to be generous with one another, even with each other's faults. I'm not accusing you of anything I haven't done myself, seven times over. But, Kristina, try to be kind."

The heavy-hearted girl stared into her teacup, not saying anything, resenting how the light violet beauty of the sea-people's song had changed to the dull lead of this conversation. Why did she have to be bothered with this? Pappa wasn't that sick. Was Anneke trying to say that he was going to die? Of course he wasn't. That was ridiculous. "I don't believe you," Kristina snapped. "You're just trying to make me feel sorry for him. Why are we even living with you anyway? Dr. Sibelius pays no attention to me whatever. You hate Pappa, anyone can see that. Why didn't you just leave us to rot in Uppsala?"

Anneke grew white and said nothing. Kristina slammed off to her tiny bedroom and lay on the bed, rigid, until the tears leaked out and ran down onto the pillow. Suddenly she couldn't bear the thought of Anneke all icy and removed. Kristina wiped her face and went back in the kitchen, fearing Anneke had gone to bed, but Anneke sat there at the table, staring at her cold tea, unmoving even when Kristina came into the kitchen.

"I'm sorry," Kristina said, and then saw Anneke's wet face. She had never before seen the older woman cry. Trembling, Kristina knelt down beside her and Anneke pulled her head to her chest. "You're right, you know," Anneke said hoarsely as she stroked Kristina's strawberry-blonde hair. "When I first went to Oslo, I lived in an attic, in a tiny room where the ice in winter made it impossible to see out the window. Cornelius was at the university in Uppsala at fourteen, now that I think of it. Young people now are kept children far too long and it makes them restless. If it were up to me, I'd let you stay in Paris next summer, but I don't think you'd like it. The heat is clammy, like a thick fog."

"Oh, it's not the heat, or the summer, or how boring it is here. It's that I'm so unhappy. Nothing works anymore. There seems to be no point to anything."

"My sister was married at your age," Anneke mused. "By eighteen she had two little babies, and was too busy to worry about whether or not things had any point. Listen to me, Kristina. You're living as a child, as a schoolgirl, but you're becoming a woman. It's going to be hard for awhile, but it will get better."

Kristina lay in bed later, glad that Anneke hadn't scolded. Trembling and excited, she thought of those dark rolling shapes in the water. They weren't seals. Seals didn't have long shaggy hair. Seals didn't sing. Seals wouldn't come when they heard a song. Something warm and large swelled up inside her, a possibility that life could hold something besides music lessons and school and sitting around the kitchen table at home while Dr. Sibelius droned on about Mixolydian versus Dorian mode in folk songs. More than Anneke lecturing Pappa, or having to listen to Pappa cough.

On that night of her last summer on the cusp between girlhood and womanhood, Kristina had dreamt a sharp and striking dream. She was underwater, and there was a man, but not a merman. Instead, he wore dark clothes, and his dark hair was long as a woman's, swirling around his head and obscuring his face. A sea-woman with legs instead of a fish's tail took his arm, and they swam together, away from her. She tried to call out but no sound came. Determined to know their secret, she followed them through jeweled caverns and maze-like passageways, until she surfaced within a vast underground sea. All around were caves whose ceilings were cathedral-high, caves decorated with grottoes off on the sides. But the swimmers were gone, and she felt so sad, as if someone she had wanted to meet very badly had just gotten up and walked away.

Kristina had woken in the middle of the night, but the dream sense didn't leave. For the first time she undid her long red-gold braids, and tried to twist the hair into a messy knot atop her head. She fussed with it here and there, but it wouldn't stay up, and so she braided it again, and swung the braids over her shoulder. Although the dream-memory was swiftly fading, she still felt close to the mysterious swimmers, even as the new pink sun glinted through the sheer curtains and made them shimmer like waves.

The next morning, the summer of Kristina's fifteenth year, had been all floodlit by sun. Everything glowed yellow, and when Pappa sat in the garden playing the violin, it seemed nothing had changed after all, that nothing was going to change, and Kristina could still be a little girl, and be happy.

Just before tea-time the back gate behind the house creaked open with a snap, and a strange figure came in through the gate, all dark but surrounded by a halo of light. Kristina blinked several times at the slim, somewhat short young man who had so boldly let himself in. He came toward her with a smile, and she swallowed hard in confusion.

"Christine!" he said, taking her hand. "Christine, I hardly recognized you. You're here; you don't know how I worried that you'd already left. Monsieur Svensson, good afternoon, sir," and he embraced Pappa as if they were long-lost father and son.

"Louvel?" she said stupidly. "Louvel de Coucy?"

"Who else?" he laughed. "I had a week's leave from the Academy, and thought I would come up here to surprise you." He turned toward Anneke in her apron, who'd emerged from the kitchen to see who'd come. "Good Mme. Sibelius, how wonderful to see you!" and he kissed her hand as elaborately as if she'd been a duchess at a ball.

Anneke curtsied politely to him, saying, "Greetings, Monsieur Vicomte," to which he protested, "Oh, no, it's been Louvel before, so why not now? And where is your good husband, the professor?"

"Gone to Perros. He'll be back tomorrow," Anneke said shortly. "I'll give him your regards."

He stayed for tea, and he and Pappa talked all throughout. Louvel calmed Pappa, who didn't go on about angels sitting at the table, or men hiding in the bushes to trap them. As Kristina brought the tea trays and then sat down to have a few sandwiches, she noticed that Louvel was charming, affable, and even a little handsome, (although not like the massive sea-man of her dream, not at all.) But there was almost nothing left of the Louvel she remembered from years past.

He stared at her so much that Kristina soon left the table and took refuge with Anneke in the kitchen. "Why did he come? He hasn't been to Lannion or Ploumanac'h for years; so why now?"

"To see you," Anneke said simply. "You should at least talk to him, Kristina, although I think he's enjoying his time with Sigurd too."

So Kristina went to sit in the side garden, and soon Louvel came around to join her on the stone bench. "All the way up on the train I thought of you. What you looked like, how you might have changed, whether you would be glad to see me or not. And here you are, more beautiful than I ever imagined. Your hair looks like a halo of gold, like something spun by the Walsungs."

Kristina looked away, embarrassed. "Let's walk. The flowers are thick up the old Ploumanac'h road."

Arm in arm they walked. His naval studies were progressing well, and in the next year he would be commissioned on board a ship. He went on about how France was to become a mighty empire once again, to rise like a phoenix after her defeat at the hands of the sneaky, dishonorable Prussians, to rival even America. But then he turned his attention from politics back to praising Kristina's beauty. They wandered around to the standing stone, the great _menhir_ that rested on the hill overlooking the churchyard, and she wondered where the boy she'd known had gone, and was determined to find out. "Do you still hunt for fairies, Louvel?" she asked in a playful tone.

He looked blank. "Fairies?"

"You know, when we were children, what we used to do all the time. We'd come up here, or go down to the seaside, and look for the fairies or the sea-people."

He shook his head, as if clearing it. "Those little games. We were so young then, Christine, and more than a little foolish. But we had great fun."

"Oh, indeed we did. What about the white stag? Do you remember him?"

"A white stag? There wouldn't be any white stags around here. Even white elk are rare."

"Never mind." She walked back to the cottage with the young stranger whom she hardly knew at all_. How strange to be courted. Is it supposed to be this boring?_ Louvel chattered on about his brother Etienne's new chateau which he was building outside Rouen. _If this is courtship, it's overrated._

The shadows lengthened as they walked back to the cottage gate. His hired carriage was at the Rising Sun, he explained, and he would catch the Paris train that very night. Then he tried to put his hand on her face, but Kristina didn't want him to touch her. Turning away encouraged him more. He kissed her lightly on the lips, a brush more than a kiss, and followed it with a more determined one. His lips were faintly dry, and his soft new moustache tickled. Then he kissed her hands all over too, promising that he would never forget her, that she would always remain in his heart, that he would write her every day.

As he walked up the road Kristina wiped her mouth, but there was nothing there to wipe off.

Pappa beamed as she let herself inside the gate. Louvel had brought him back to a kind of delusional and manic life. "Did you play in the garden?" he asked.

"Louvel's not the person he was, Pappa," Kristina said, and he looked confused. "He's grown up. Soon he will be a navy officer and sail away on a ship. We didn't play, Pappa, we talked."

"But you do like him, don't you?"

"Pappa, he's grown up and changed. No, I don't think I like him that much anymore."

The curtain of memory came down onto the stage of the present. The landlady tapped on the door, calling softly that Mademoiselle's gentleman friend still remained downstairs. Did she want to join him for dinner, or should the landlady offer her regrets? Kristina sighed. She'd brushed, washed, fixed her hair, and there was nothing else left to do. "Tell him yes, I'll be down in just a few minutes."

Everything in the great firelit room seemed to have grown right up out of the earth. Little flecks of granite in the fireplace stones sparkled like jewels in the light. The dark oak beams of the rafters overhead arched like the limbs of ancient forest trees. The coarse plaster of the half-timbered walls hung thick as the mud she used to play in as a child, when she had grown white to the shoulders with river clay. Hundreds of years of use had left ridges and furrows on the satiny oak table top. Everything seemed settled and firmly rooted there, entirely in its place, everything except Louvel.

Kristina came to where he sat in front of the great fire. The landlady had spread before them on the table a large bowl of the local fish stew called _cotriade_, a pile of brown chewy bread, and a lump of fresh winter-white butter. Louvel said a long, elaborate blessing which sounded faintly martial. Dutifully she crossed herself when he did.

They helped themselves to stew. He looked as if the rough-cut fish and chunks of leeks offended him. Kristina spooned in the first bite; the mussels were a little tough and chewy but delicious. More exercise for the jaws, as Anneke would say. She called to the innkeeper for some beer.

Louvel's eyes widened in surprise. "You drink beer?"

"Of course. This meal just goes with beer. What else would you drink?"

Louvel asked the innkeeper what kind of wine he had, and they haggled for a few minutes. Louvel sighed, the innkeeper rolled his eyes, and when brought a bottle of "their best," Louvel poured a bit into his glass, rolled it around his mouth, rolled his own eyes, and his expression showed that he found it inferior, but acceptable.

Rising Sun beer was dark and bitter, unlike the light brew Alberich had brought earlier that day, but it was bracing and good in its own way. It perfectly matched the strong aromas of the _cotriade_. Louvel grimaced again at the wine, and then the interrogation began.

"So when did you arrive?"

"Yesterday evening. Yourself?"

"The train was delayed by ice and the stage by fog. I had planned to get here right at dawn, and hear your father's Mass, but didn't arrive until almost noon. Christine, I wanted to be there so badly, to comfort you, and I suffered greatly being so late. Then when I found that you hadn't returned to the inn after the Mass, I worried terribly. I went all around the town in spurts, coming back to the inn, because I feared I'd miss you. So where were you?"

"Walking around, looking at old sights and new ones."

"I went down the path from the churchyard to the sea, but didn't see you anywhere. It was as if you had disappeared entirely. It worries me, Christine. You shouldn't walk around like that without an escort. Was there no lady here, or no maid, that could have accompanied you? And why didn't you tell anyone where you were going?"

She took a larger swallow of beer than she intended. This beer was not only bitterer than Alberich's, it was stronger as well. It rose to the tip of her nose, which is exactly where too much beer or champagne tends to go. "I didn't think I had to tell anyone where I was going, Monsieur Vicomte." She bit off some more bread, thinking that if her mouth was full, she'd have to answer less.

Louvel pushed aside the grainy bread with disdain. "Please call me Louvel, Christine. I don't want to stand on title or ceremony with you. You don't know how hard it was, when I got back to Paris, to get up the courage to meet with you. I even left you flowers, but couldn't bring myself to leave my card. Do you remember them, the yellow roses?" Then he looked down sadly at his rapidly cooling plate. "Of course you wouldn't. No doubt you get so many. But I looked all over to find these for you, a rare kind of yellow rose with a pink border. They reminded me so much of you."

She did remember the flowers then, and Amelie's comment about the fresh-faced young man who had left them. So that was Louvel. It was easy to see where Amelie had been confused; he did look younger than his twenty-one years. "Don't worry, Louvel, we can stand on first names." She dipped bread into the remains of the bowl. He winced, which gave her an odd sense of amusement, so she did it again.

"I thought I would find you in the chapel, praying," he remarked. His own plate was virtually untouched.

"What, at noon? I went out to see Ploumanac'h. Don't you like the stew?" She helped herself to more.

"When I envisioned dining with you for the first time, it wasn't in a rustic inn. I thought of bringing you to a supper club frequented by my brother. They have the most marvelous chef. I'll take you there when we return to Paris." He sighed, and took a sip of the wine, wrinkling his nose.

"That's a kind thought, Louvel. Let me see how the performance schedule goes. But tell me about yourself. So you are on leave from the Navy, in between postings?"

On he went with a barrage of words about his ship, the crew, the patrolling of the Mediterranean, the perfidy of the Moroccans. As he talked about himself he grew more relaxed and lost some of that ramrod stiffness of the spine and shoulders. He invited her to come on board his ship for a tour. No doubt she had never seen a Navy ship all outfitted for duty at sea. "We'll build our navy to rival that of America's," he said in conclusion.

"Have you been to America?"

He had, last year, with his brother and aunt. They had thought that because New York was of a relatively northern latitude, it would be cool in the summer, but instead it was vile, with heat far beyond what one would expect for its latitude, and filthy and crowded besides. The inedible food consisted of burned chops smeared with thick greasy gravy, and boiled potatoes. Worst of all, the Americans had no respect for position or nobility; all they cared about was the almighty dollar, and their accents - barbarous. At least London was civilized, and they knew how to respect gentlemen there. "We went to Mass, and could you imagine? It was full of the worst sorts of people, Irish washerwomen, and laborers, and even beggars off the streets. No one of any quality went to Mass there, it seemed. Even the Cathedral of St. Patrick's was full of rabble. And the deformities - beggars littered the streets in the southern parts of the city. You'd think you were in Algiers."

"So you've been to Algiers, too."

"More than a few times. Filthy city, although the Grand National Hotel is pleasant. It's remarkably airy and cool for that dreadful climate."

Had Alberich ever mentioned the name of the hotel he'd worked on in Algiers? Keeping it breezy in the hot Algerian sun - that's the kind of thing he'd pay attention to. Slowly her reserve loosened, and when he had run on about the Navy long enough, and started talking about his family, Kristina actually began to enjoy the conversation.

"My aunt keeps pressuring my brother Etienne to marry, but he keeps putting her off, saying that he has plenty of time. He's thirty-eight years old, do you know that? He wants to arrange a marriage for me, but I tell him, 'Arrange one for you first,' and he just laughs. Etienne worked hard to get me my commission, you know," he said confidentially. "Some in the Naval Office thought I was too young. But Etienne has influence; it's remarkable how many people he knows high up in the Third Republic. He says that he's one of the few members of our set that they can trust to support them fully. They know he's not longing for the days of Napoleon III anymore. He says that's all over. He knows people in the theater, too. That's why he wrote to them about you."

"About me? Why?"

"He thought you were stuck in too many bit parts and breech roles, and that you deserved more exposure. He thought he would introduce me to you. Imagine the look on his face when I told him I knew you already, from before."

"Oh, I can imagine," she said faintly.

"I would have thought you would have known, Christine," he said archly, "that the cost to keep a theater going isn't borne fully by ticket sales alone, but that it relies heavily on subscribers and patrons as well, like our family. Etienne isn't the only one who would like to see you more prominently featured. Etienne says that you're beautiful, you're fresh, and you act with a naturalness and spontaneity he hasn't often seen before."

"He says that, does he? He should spend more time at the Comic Opera." Louvel raised a skeptical eyebrow. "That's where I was, before moving to the Eclectic Theater. Opera _bouffe_ requires real acting as well as singing. Timing is critical when the subject matter is light. In many ways it's more fun. You can't just stand around looking miserable because you know you're going to get stabbed or commit suicide or pitched into a vat of boiling oil. I'll tell you frankly, Louvel, sometimes I wish I were back there again. Don't tell your brother I said so. But the tide has turned against it these days. Everything is so serious."

"As it should be," he said, stiffening his mouth into a thin line and regaining some starch in his bearing. "We lost the war because of our weakness and decadence. You weren't in France during the war, were you? No, you were in Sweden, and weren't touched by it. I was too young to remember it, but Etienne has told me how our empire was invaded by the filthy Prussians. France won't be able to revenge herself on the Germanic empire, if we waste our time on puffy operettas and light women." He paused, and took a gulp of the wine that no longer seemed so inferior to him.

_Is he jealous of his brother and Mirella? Why would he be so obsessed with "light women" otherwise?_ She said nothing, and drank some more beer.

"That's why I worry so about you, Christine. You're a young girl, alone in the glamorous world of the theater, susceptible to all sorts of baleful influences and dangers. I worried so much when you swooned at the conclusion of the Gala, but more than your health, I was concerned, and still am, for your reputation."

"My reputation," she repeated_. No more beer for you tonight. Tea. What this conversation needs is tea, and a lot of it._ "Louvel, would you excuse me for a moment?" She hastily left the table, and caught the eye of the innkeeper's wife, which wasn't difficult, as the plump kerchiefed woman had kept her attention firmly fixed on Louvel and Kristina throughout the entire evening.

"Please clear our table, and bring us tea to one of those side tables, near the fireplace. I need a diversion here," Kristina said under her breath.

The landlady's shoulders shook a little with soundless laughter as she gave a wink and a nod. "Gentlemen from Paris can be a handful, no?" she whispered as she walked by.

_If she only knew._

Louvel wouldn't be derailed, however. As soon as they had teacups in hand, he started in again before Kristina could steer the conversation to some less volatile subject. "This is my worry, Christine. I come to your dressing room after the Gala, and the doctor throws me out, unceremoniously and rudely, I might add. Then I wait for you to emerge, hoping to escort you home, but you don't appear. I wait, and wait, and then, what do I see? A man comes to your dressing room, not even in evening dress, but in some long sacklike grey garment, and even wearing a hat indoors. Quick as a wink, you invite him inside. Naturally my concern grows when I don't see either of you come out for the longest time. I fear that some unscrupulous person is taking advantage of you, so I go down to your dressing room itself, and what do I hear? The two of you talking as if you were intimate, punctuated by periods of silence."

"You were listening at my door? You stood outside my dressing room door and put your ear to it?"

He pulled back a little. "Christine, my concern is only for you. Not only is there some stranger in your dressing room; then it sounds like he's praising you to the skies. I wait and wait in the corridor, hoping to confront this person who so occupies your attention, to at least determine if his intentions are honorable. But when I see you leave the dressing room, you go the other way, and to what? All I could see was a dead end. Where did you go, Christine?"

"Don't raise your voice. You're making a spectacle of yourself," although there was no one else in the room except for the innkeeper and his wife, heartily enjoying their rare entertainment.

"So what am I to think?" he continued, a bit quieter. "You have a lover in your _loge_, and then you write me, inviting me to come up here. I come, delayed by the weather, which I couldn't help, only to find you gone, leaving no indication of your whereabouts…"

"Louvel," Kristina said slowly, her head entirely clear now and her back up with irritation, "I didn't invite you. That's not what I said in my letter."

"Well, of course you didn't invite me directly," he said in a tone usually reserved for naughty school children. "A lady never invites a man directly, but drops subtle hints. I thought you would know that."

"Now you're telling me how a lady behaves?" she said through closed teeth. "I thought I was being considerate by telling you of the death of someone who meant something to you. I wasn't dropping any hints. I didn't mean for you to rush up here. And I don't have a lover."

"Then who was that man?" he almost wailed in despair. The innkeepers stopped their cleaning and stared openly now. "That has occupied me ever since that night, and especially since I got your letter about your father. All the way on the train up I could think of nothing else."

"Well, you'll just have to continue to think about it, because whom I entertain in my private life is just that, private. What gives you the right to ask, anyway?"

His face screwed up into an expression of suffering, and she almost felt a little sorry for him. Almost. "What gives me the right? Christine, I wanted to tell you this under other circumstances, better ones, with moonlight and candles and roses, not in front of a rural fireplace over peasant stew. What right? I don't have any right, I admit it." He gave the owners a chill look, muttering, "Don't they have anything else to do? Christine, come out walking with me; it's like a cage in the Paris Zoo here."

"I think I'll stay where I am. This chair is comfortable. Just ignore them; they don't get much excitement up here in the winter. You were saying?"

"No, I have no right, except one. Ever since I first heard you sing Smeton in _Anna Bolena_, you've melted my heart. Yes, I thought how much better you would have done as Jane Seymour, or Anna herself, but there you were, so beautiful but so chilly, so … so Northern. You reminded me of one of those ice princesses your father used to tell us about, just waiting to be warmed, and then you did warm up, as if the midnight sun itself shone on you.

"I tried to meet you and tell you myself, but you were as slippery as glass, and I never could catch you after a performance. How splendid you were at the Gala, like a princess of the North, but not cold any longer, and that gave me courage to take my chance. Then you fainted, and I thought some dread condition had come over you, which made me want to rush to your side, only to find someone had gotten there before me."

Kristina was afraid to move or look at him. He found the silence encouraging, and went on, "Etienne asked me if I wanted to meet you, and he laughed at me when I said that I already knew the way to your _loge_, and broke off from him as he went to meet Mirella. She's his mistress, did you know that?"

There had to be some escape, some way to get out of this endless flood of clammy talk. "Everyone knows that, Louvel. It was old news when I arrived at the Eclectic Theater. It's been going on for a few years now."

He sighed heavily, ignoring her sarcasm. "That woman thinks she has him hooked, but she doesn't. Christine, perhaps you don't feel as I do. You don't have to answer now. I want you to know, though, that you have me as your devoted servant, as someone who cares about you and wants to bring you back onto the right path, from which I fear you're straying."

Enough was enough. "Why don't you like Mirella?"

Louvel looked around, unsure of himself. "That should be obvious. She's ... she's a dancer. Our aunt will find someone for Etienne, someone of good family."

"Of course. Just she will find someone for you." Kristina rose a bit unsteadily, from fatigue and beer, from astonishment and sheer nerves, and he uncertainly rose too. "I appreciate your concern for me, that you enjoy my music, and that you are devoted to the secure rest of my father's soul. But you've put your heart out on your sleeve, and I'm afraid I can't pick it up."

"Your heart is given to another, then."

"No, Louvel, I haven't promised myself to another. My heart is my own." _Was that true? True enough for now, perhaps._

He straightened himself up. "Of course you can't 'pick up my heart,' then, as you put it. I worried about your character and reputation, Christine, but you give me hope. No true lady gives her love lightly; it has to be earned and won. I will show you, Christine, that I'm worthy of yours."

His lips were dry as he ran them over the backs of her hand. Embarrassed, she pulled away with as much grace as she could manage, and said, "I have to bid you goodnight now."

He nodded, and Kristina beat a hasty retreat up the stairs.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_, she repeated silently as she paced around her room. _Why didn't I just tell him outright, I don't love you, go back to Paris, leave me alone? Why didn't I follow my instinct not to write him in the first place? Now he's encouraged. Now these two are both haunting me, each for their own purposes. Although I can't for a moment fathom why Etienne would want to promote me to the managers. _

The moon came up, full and almost blue in the ocean mist. She undid her hair and let it fall loose over her shoulders. As she brushed it out, her mirror image stared back critically. Why did Louvel call her beautiful? Her nose was strong and a little too spread out. Her cheekbones sat up high in a broad face. One of the girls at school called them "Slavic cheekbones." If she sat too long in the sun she freckled, and her mouth was impossibly big, unlike the little squeezed-up rosebuds everyone called pretty.

The rest of her wasn't much better, said her critical gaze. You're not full and voluptuous, nor a willowy little _soubrette_. You're too strong and broad, and that's completely out of the question for a lady. _But how could I sing the way I do if I had a tiny nose and mouth_, she argued back_, if I had no body to speak of? We're expected to play the essence of the "lady" on stage - when not in trousers, that is - yet all the qualities needed to play those "ladies" well involve size and strength, all these unladylike qualities._ Her broad face stared back, unconvinced.

She wanted to write Anneke a letter, but it seemed pointless, as Kristina would get back to Paris before any letter arrived. And there was no point in writing Alberich, as there was nowhere to post it. She didn't know his address either in Paris or Rennes.

So Kristina watched the cool moonlight play on the leafless branches of the wide-spreading tree, which came almost into her bedroom window itself. Its unpruned growth covered almost the entire seaward wall of the inn. She couldn't see the sea from the window, but she could smell it, and it made her twitchy and restless. The room closed in like a press, and she wanted out. _If I go down the stairs, the innkeeper's wife have to unlock the door and give me a key, and I don't know where Louvel's room is. He might be close enough to hear. It wouldn't surprise me if he couldn't sleep either and walks the floor instead, thinking about me. He'd follow me out, wanting to go along. His company is the last thing I want right now._

The tree seemed almost a stair step climb ten feet or so to the ground below. She didn't want to embarrass herself again, like that morning climbing on the theater box balconies, so she hitched her skirts up with safety pins, twisted her hair into a rough knot and began to climb carefully down the tree.

The bark was cold, colder than expected, and she wished she'd worn gloves. Climbing down took longer, too, because the moonlight dimmed as she entered the bristly canopy, and had to feel her way for lower branches with her feet, taking care not to slip.

Then a sound came that forced her heart into her mouth, the far-off note of a violin, coming from the direction of the sea. She peered out through the branches, breathless. There up on the seaside walk strode Alberich, playing something low and melancholy along the way. A gypsy tune, or perhaps one Russian or Slavic vibrated through the air, a tune with a sadness underneath it which also suggests an almost terrible joy, a sadness which makes the tears stand in the eyes, but not fall.

Now she hurried, making more noise than she should have, but not caring. Kristina dropped about four feet from the thickest branch to the ground, and when Alberich heard the 'thud' he turned around, but kept playing. He beckoned to her with his whole body, aiming it toward the seaside walk, and she ran to catch up with him, cold ground crunching under her boots, while his made no sound. As she ran, her long hair fell out of its knot, caught up in a swirling dance with the breeze.

He stopped playing, picked up a handful of her red-gold hair now white with moonlight, and ran it down the length of a face which she no longer saw as mottled or marred, but simply his. "I thought you had said your good-byes and gone," she said, barely breathing because he rubbed his face with her hair so tenderly.

"I leave in a few hours. I wanted to say goodbye with a song first."

"How did you know I wouldn't be asleep?"

"I couldn't sleep, and didn't think you could either."

The moon glinted on his face, making deep black shadows where his eyes would be, and his skin looked almost bonelike, lined and furrowed. He wore a hood over his felt hat. With no hat or gloves, only one of Anneke's old sweaters, and hitched-up skirts that showed her legs like a young girl's, she shivered.

"You should go back in, Kristina. You're cold. There's a sea-fog coming in, and by the smell of it, there's ice in it."

"What will you do?"

"Play some more if you like, and then go back to Guilliard's. I expect you'll be tired."

"I can sleep on the train. Anyway, you can wrap me in your cloak."

"Then I can't play the violin, can I?"

"No, I suppose you couldn't."

He snapped the violin back into its case, and drew his long woolen cloak around her like wings. For a moment it seemed as if everything hung perfectly balanced on the great scales of the world, and then his head broke the equilibrium when he leaned over so closely that she could feel his warm breath on her face. The kiss which she knew was hers hung so loosely from his mouth that she could have reached for it right then and there. Something held her back, saying, wait, it will fall of its own accord when truly ripe, and so she lifted her face and let his breath fall on it instead, like mist from the sea. Then he said several times like a prayer, "Kristina, Kristina," followed by a tone new and commanding. "Will you go back up the tree, or through the door?"

"Up the tree," she said, pulling away with difficulty from his cloak and that warm fog of breath. "I don't want to wake anybody."

He caressed her hair again, and then watched her climb until she reached the narrow bedroom window and squeezed back in. His shadowy form melted into those other dark shadows cast all about by the trees standing still in the moonlight. Kristina crawled into bed half-hypnotized, already dreaming about the silent trees and music coming from the sea. She fell into dream almost at once, and the sea-man came to her, this time without a fish's tail but with human legs, and everything else possessed by a man as well. On the back of a great sea serpent he rode, with his long weedy black hair streaming out behind him. Naked she greeted him on a beach full of standing stones mounted into the strand, where the surf met the sand, and he beckoned her into the water. Hundreds of _menhir_ lined the coast, and she had to weave her way through them as she waded into the tide. The water wasn't icy, like ocean water in the winter, but instead warm and caressing. Then she dived like a seal into the ocean which swirled all around, but the green man of the sea was gone.

Great booming knocks rang through the water, and Kristina fought to the surface of waking from sleep, to hear someone pounding on the door. The moon was gone, and only the faint gray dawn shone on the curtains. Kristina started up in fear at the call, "Mademoiselle! Wake up, Mademoiselle! Please wake up!"

There stood the innkeeper's wife, twisting her apron and looking distressed. "The Vicomte de Coucy … your friend from Paris … he's … oh, you must come at once."

"What? What's happened?" They raced down the hall to the end of the corridor, where Louvel had his room on the far corner of the building. If there were any other guests in the hotel at this time, they didn't show themselves.

"The priest and the sacristan brought him back just a few moments ago," the landlady said breathlessly. "They found him right outside the chapel, in his shirtsleeves, lying on the ground and blue with cold. We've sent for old Dr. Bergamos, who lives in Ploumanac'h. The only other doctor is on the south side of Lannion, and that would take hours. Bergamos is retired, but I think he will help us. But I warn you, Mademoiselle, he's … odd. He will say anything that comes into his mind, even the rudest things."

Louvel lay on his bed, wrapped in a feather comforter. Kristina took one look at his blue face and knew immediately what was wrong. "He needs hot water bottles. Lots of them, hot but not too hot. The landlord needs to come in and remove his clothes."

"What?" asked the incredulous landlady.

"I know what I'm talking about, Madame," Kristina said firmly. "He's badly chilled. Get every hot water bottle you have and fill them with very warm water, but not too hot. Take off his clothes and place the bottles both over and under his limbs and trunk, under the comforter. He's shivering; that's a good sign. It's when they don't shiver that you begin to worry."

_Louvel, what have you done?_ She didn't tell the landlady that the best remedy was for someone to climb naked under the covers with him, preferably two people, one on either side, and wrap themselves his chilled limbs. It was fast and effective, but not a picture Kristina wanted in mind at this time.

Old Doctor Bergamos was up and about when the stable man came for him, and by the time he arrived to look at Louvel, the young man turned a dazed, half-awake face towards the doctor and began to moan.

"He's hypothermic," Bergamos said, "but not in any serious danger. What were you doing, you young fool, going out in that icy wet fog with no coat or hat, in the middle of the night? He's supposed to be some kind of lord or something? They say too much inbreeding affects the brain, and I believe it."

The innkeeper and his wife looked exasperated, but Kristina suppressed a laugh.

"Whose idea was it to put the rubber bottles on him?" he asked. "Not that I'd credit either of you two with the sense to do it. It probably saved him a bout of pneumonia."

"I did, Doctor," Kristina said.

He gave her the frankest, most appreciative and open leer she had ever received, starting with her hips and working up to the top of her head. "You his mistress, or his wife?"

"Neither."

"Christine … Christine," came the wan voice from the bed.

She bent over him, and he grasped her hand weakly. "What happened?" she asked. "Can you speak?"

He ran his tongue over his lips, and struggled to sit up as Dr. Bergamos moved in closer to hear better. "I heard the fiddler and went to the window. There you were, running out to meet him."

Bergamos smirked and pulled on his long white moustache.

"What sort of fellow would come at that hour of the night, with a fiddle, dressed like a tramp? It couldn't be someone who could be trusted … But you had disappeared, and that dark tramp was headed out toward the churchyard. I ran after him as fast as I could …"

"Without a coat," Bergamos interrupted.

Louvel ignored him and went on, his voice growing stronger. "He was in the churchyard, playing some devil's tune on that fiddle of his. Then he stopped playing and I felt as if I was coming out of some kind of trance. He went into the chapel and I followed him, wishing to demand some explanation."

Kristina groaned inside. _That's all I need_.

"He was standing by one of the columns with his head covered by a long ridiculous cloak, too bold to even remove his hat in the presence of Our Lord as any decent Catholic would. I called out, 'You there, stranger, what are you doing here?' In a voice like a deep bell he replied, 'What does any man do in the house of God?'

"'You invoke God,' I replied, 'yet your behavior toward a modest young woman seems less than worthy. Who are you, and what do you want with Mlle. Sigurdsson?' I laid my hand on his shoulder and attempted to turn him around, man to man, and it was then that I saw his face, and had to fight to keep from screaming."

"What?" Kristina cried in exasperation.

Bergamos sat still as marble, rapt. "Go on, young man, if you have the strength."

"I do," Louvel said. "It was a horrible face, bone-white, with two black holes for eye sockets, although within his eyes a fire burned, whether from the candles or from some infernal fire within, I couldn't tell."

"That's ridiculous," Kristina exclaimed.

"Young lady," Dr. Bergamos glared at her, "Don't interrupt the therapeutic process."

"He towered over me and shrugged me off. I could tell that he was strong, very strong, but I held onto his cloak and pulled. He leaned his horrible face very close to me and said in deep tones, "Take your hand off me, and this is forgotten. If not, you will regret it.' 'Come out and fight me like a man,' I said as I kept hold of his cloak. He walked outside and I hung onto him. When we got outside, I told him to turn around and face me, and give an accounting of himself. He told me again to unhand him."

"Why didn't you?" Dr. Bergamos asked. "Most people would have."

Louvel ignored him and went on. "Then he shoved me, hard, and I fell to my knees next to the stone of the chapel steps. He began to move away and I grabbed hold of his cloak again, but he kicked my hand off, like you would kick a dog that got in your way. He almost ran down the chapel path and I called out to him to stop, to not run away like a coward. I got up to chase after him and slipped at once on a patch of ice. I must have struck my head on the stone of the steps, because I fell insensible and knew nothing else until I found myself in this bed."

Bergamos came over and inspected all through Louvel's thin hair and over his neck, finally saying, "There's a small bump on the right occiput, but not too serious. Didn't your father ever tell you, young man, don't start a fight with someone bigger than yourself?"

_Apparently not_, Kristina said under her breath, not wanting the doctor to snap at her again.

Louvel implored Kristina, "Why were you with that terrifying person? He looked like a demon out of the pit of hell."

"You exaggerate," she said, giving Bergamos a wary look. "He's not terrifying, and his face isn't a skull's. That had to be some trick of the light."

"Christine, I know what I saw."

"Time to rest now," Dr. Bergamos said, and gave Louvel a shove with more strength than one might expect of a man his age. Then he commanded, "No more of this discussion. It can all be straightened out later. Good hosts, this young man needs to rest here for the day, before returning to Paris. Since Mademoiselle is already in her traveling clothes, I will assume her bags are packed, and will drive her to the station in Lannion myself. No need to wait for the stage."

Relief washed over her. A way out, after all. She didn't have to wait for the next stage, which would probably take hours. Kristina looked over briefly at Louvel, who had fallen into limp doze after his outburst. She followed Bergamos out of the room.

"You have some strong, fine horses," Kristina said to the old man when they reached the stone landing outside the Rising Sun. Two stout geldings clip-clopped as they pulled his ancient black barouche out of the gate and down toward the road to Lannion.

"That's all that's strong and fine about me anymore. Although I consider it quite a coup to escort a great singer to her train to Paris."

"You over-rate me. I'm an understudy, mostly, and do small parts."

"Since when are theater people so modest?"

"You know the theater?"

"When I was married to my second wife, I lived and practiced in Paris, but my tastes ran more to light opera, rather than all that high tragedy. I treated theater people, as well as the upper middle class. Between the pox, neurasthenia, the green sickness, or girls starving themselves because some saint lived on Holy Communion and nothing else, I got sick of it. Once a week, at least, I said no to some actress or some matron wanting me to play the 'angel maker' for her." Hearing her small gasp, he cocked his bleary eye and said, "Did I shock you, dear?"

"No, not directly. It's just that you don't mince words, and I'm not used to that. I like it, actually, except that when one uses plain speech, the dreadful things come out as well, don't they?"

"It's an ugly business, my girl, made worse when the world looks the other way. If you do lie down for your young man, do it with the understanding that you're likely to get a baby, and be glad of it."

Now she was genuinely shocked, and the hot flush crept down her bodice. "The Vicomte is not my young man!"

"What? That puffer fish? I meant your moonlight minstrel."

Kristina set her face in stone and looked out at the grey fields bordered by sticklike trees, not wanting to face him.

"Ah, the arrow strikes the target," he croaked gleefully. "You're a fine girl, a fine one. If I were forty years younger, I'd marry you myself."

Recovering slightly, she said, "You're so sure I would have you?"

"Oh, you would, my dear, you would."

"You mentioned your second wife. How many have you had?"

"Three, and buried them all."

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"Don't be. They were good romps, all my girls were. I'd love to persuade you to be the fourth," and he rested his hand on her knee with a gentle squeeze. "Don't tell your fiddler."

She pushed his hand off of her knee. "Dr. Bergamos, I'd hate to have to kick you out of your own carriage and drive it on to Lannion, or at the very least get out and walk the rest of the way myself, dragging my carpetbag. But don't think I won't. Actually, I think you would like Anneke, my guardian. She appreciates frank speech too."

"She's a Parisian?"

"From Norway, actually. She was born and grew up in Oslo, then married in Uppsala."

"That explains your charming accent."

"The Parisians don't seem to think so."

He sighed and gazed ahead. Kristina looked out over a field of sheep. The horses' hooves beat a lulling pattern, just slightly out of time with the jingle of the harness and reins. The sun came out over the slowly rising bluffs, and the mists of the sea-bed remained behind. Kristina didn't want to go back to Paris, as she took a last look at the winter-scaled fields. But she didn't want to stay in Ploumanac'h, either. Paris's size and weight loomed over her, even from hundreds of kilometers away, but Louvel's wan presence in the Rising Sun barred any thought of staying. A tiny headache threaded its way through her skull, and threatened to squeeze out the memory of the sea breeze on her forehead, and Alberich's warm rough hand in hers as they clambered over rocks.

"Your fiddler's from Paris, isn't he?"

"How did you know?"

"If he were a local boy, I'd know him. Around here, we don't let a good musician get away without putting him through his paces at dances or weddings. But what's this about a skull face?" he asked, going suddenly serious. "Don't get a poker up your back; I'm not interested in your private life with your lovers."

"They're not my lovers! Either of them!"

"Not interested in your lovers at all," he continued, ignoring the outburst. "Human anomalies interest me. What about your fiddler frightened the boy so?"

She fidgeted with her coat buttons and said nothing.

"Stupid girl, where's your tongue? I'm a doctor. What do you think I saw here during the war, when hundreds of boys got arms and legs and faces, yes, whole faces, blown off, and they lay in every building big enough for some cots? Our Brittany boys took the worst of it, they did, but they fought and bled and died like men, and some of them I put back together, as best I could. Was your fiddler hurt in the war?"

"It's something from birth."

His eyes went hard and inquiring. "Hereditary pox?"

A sick feeling lurched her through stomach. "I don't know. I don't think so. We've never … talked about it. Anyway, doesn't that squash the nose, and cause idiocy?"

"Not always. It's why people fear those with a twisted face, even if they won it by rights in the war. I'm not casting doubt on his character, girl. It's the sins of the father, not the son, which pass on the taint. But it can be caught by others. Just so you know."

_Alberich rubbed his face with my hair_, _and later that night, back in bed, I kissed those locks over and over. Oh, God._

He looked over sympathetically. "So why don't you describe it to me?"

She swallowed hard, hesitating at first. "The skin on the upper half of his face is different from the rest. It looks like it's been pushed together and ridged," and she squeezed the back of her hand to make the skin wrinkle up. "But it's not wrinkled like an old person's, no offense. Instead, the ridges move when he moves his face."

"Are they soft to the touch, or hard?"

"I don't know. I've never touched his face."

"I see," he said, thinking. "Go on. How extensive is the affected skin?"

"It goes from about the middle of his cheeks up halfway through his forehead, and around to his ears. It almost looks like a mask, a mask of skin. Really, I hardly notice it anymore. It shocked me when Louvel went on about it so."

"Any lesions or sores, any scaliness?"

There had to be a way to get out of this conversation without walking the rest of the way to Lannion. "No. None that I saw."

"Are the ears affected?"

"No, nor his eyebrows, which are thick and black."

"What about his eyes? Why do I have to pry this out of you with a crowbar?"

She stiffened. What a persistent, dogged old man. "Very well. The skin around his eyes is smooth, but it's of an odd blue color, as if bruised. His lashes are exceptionally thick and black, and the combination makes his eyes look very dark and deep."

"So that in the moonlight, under the influence of hysteria and hypothermia, that boy might think they were eye sockets."

"I suppose."

"Tell me about his teeth."

"What do you think he is, a horse, that I looked into his mouth? Very well. When he sang, I did look at his mouth. They were large and white."

"None broken or unusually small? No gaps?"

"None that I could see, just through looking."

"How's his general health? Is he hale? Strong?"

_He had an iron grip, pulling me over the balcony_, but she didn't say it aloud. _This can't be, oh, not even the possibility_, she prayed silently. Finally she said, "Very hale," trying to keep her voice under control.

"What about the hair?"

"It's wavy, thick, and dark, but silvered with grey. He has beautiful hair," she said brokenly, hiding her face in her hands. "It's soft, and full, and yes, I want to run my fingers through it. What more do you want me to say? Do you enjoy this? Do you have to fill me with worry like this? Why don't you stop the carriage right now? It can't be more than a kilometer to Lannion. I can walk."

His voice was heavy but gentle. "My girl, I'm sorry. I'm seventy-five years old, and from where I sit, life's too short to mince words. Every evening's sunrise could be my last. From what you said, I don't think your fiddler has the pox. Obviously, without an examination I can't say for sure. But I've seen so much of it, so many marriages ruined, so many lies told over the years."

She sniffed and said, "It's all right. You meant well. It's just that I had that fear too, and there's no one to ask."

"You couldn't ask your adopted mother?"

"She hasn't met him. I haven't told her anything, because there's really nothing to tell."

"Nothing yet, you mean." When she stayed silent, he went on, "It's the sins of the fathers, girl. What do you know about his father?"

"Not much," she admitted. "He died at an advanced age, although not quite with as many years as yours. He was a builder, and very cold to everyone. Other than that, I don't know."

"You might ask," he said.

"That I might."

At the station, he once again gave her a manly handshake, acting as if the upsetting parts of the conversation hadn't happened. From his waistcoat pocket, he took an ivory embossed card. "You and your Anneke come see me when you're back in Ploumanac'h," he said. "Bring your minstrel, too. I'll check on that boy when I get back, but he should be on the train to Paris tomorrow."

He climbed stiff-legged back into his carriage. Talking to him was like climbing into ice-cold water after the sauna, when the heart almost stops, only she didn't feel invigorated at all. Instead, her heart was clammy with terror. A little ironic voice inside said that she'd finally met someone too frank even for Anneke.

(_Continued _…)


	14. Diminishing Returns

**Diminishing Returns**

**(A/N: **Sorry it's taken so long for this update. Personal life intervenes, as it sometimes does, but now I hope to be back on track. – SB)

All the warmth of that winter day by the Ploumanac'h sea leached out of Kristina on the cold, weary train ride back to Paris. As the train steamed into the great Rennes railway terminal for a long stop, Alberich was suddenly all around Kristina, in her imagination, inside her skin, touching her hair, like a dream that lingers with waking. She felt him moving through her as he moved about the city, having lunch, or reading a newspaper, or drinking coffee with a woman. That last thought hurt, so she put it away. _What if I got out of the train right now, and went to look for him?_ she thought. _Could I find him?_ Black- and brown-frocked passengers streamed through the station, as far as one could see. She shrank down into her seat, miserable.

At the Paris station, she hauled her carpetbag behind her like a dead thing. Cabbies tipped their caps, but she refused, shivering instead on her walk through the frozen streets. Her thoughts tolled in time with a pealing church bell.

_Trudge through the boulevards, slip past the cafes with their laughing men and women, turn into the narrow street, haul up the stairs, start the fire, make the tea, read the mail. Eat, or not, then sleep, with next stop rehearsal. Punctuate the half-sleep with flashes of glitter and applause. Then do it all over again, day in and day out._

_Under the stage, deep under the wood and stone, the theater's horses turn treadmills connected to gears, to raise and lower the bigger sets. They have forgotten what it's like to roll in the alfalfa meadow. For them, it is the stall, the treadmill, the stage. Like me._

_Can they ever run away? Have they forgotten jumping and galloping and mating? Do they even recall the Paris streets? Would they ride calmly out of the city walls, or would they bolt in terror?_

_I'm going to the stables sometime soon. I want to put my hands on something warm, onto something not a mystery. There's definitely no mystery in a horse anymore. Why lay your hands on a horse when you've had your hands on a man?_

The next morning Kristina woke at dawn, ready to fly to the Eclectic Theater to meet Alberich. The shock came as cold to her feet as the hardwood floor. She crept back onto the carpet, but the cold remained. _He's in Rennes. _ _I don't know where, and he hasn't exactly said when he would return. Or what he's doing there._

As she quietly cut and toasted bread in the kitchen, careful not to wake Anneke, she scolded herself for not asking him more questions. _But something covers me like a veil when I'm with him. It's as if a huge part of me goes to sleep, or passes into a kind of dream. The air itself shines around him so brightly that I stare at it rather than at him. That living, moving air covers me like a veil, while at the same time he shines with a breathing halo. The warm shimmering life radiating off him sends me into a beautiful dream._

_So I don't think to ask all these fundamentals, like where do you live, or what exactly is it you do for money? What kind of a prospect are you, M. Niemann? Those are the kinds of questions most girls' mothers would ask for them. They'd have the man calipered, weighed, measured, cut to fit and wrapped up in a box with ribbon - or dumped outside with the scraps - before the girl knew what hit her._

_Now I have some things more to ask him than what's in his bank account. While I'm not so frightened, not so cold about it, it still rests like a knife against my skin. It would be easier if Anneke would ask me why I am so quiet; why I said so little about Ploumanac'h; why I went straight to bed almost without speaking to her at all._

_But she doesn't ask. I know she cares. I wonder how much she knows?_

A gentle rustling in the kitchen doorway caught Kristina by surprise, and there stood Anneke, long braid resting on one shoulder, her eyes puffed with sleep.

"Tea, Anneke?"

"Mercy, child, I didn't expect to see you here. You're usually gone at this time."

"I'm just ready to leave."

"But you don't have your usual appointment. Can you sit and have some tea with me, then?"

"How do you know I don't have my usual appointment?"

"When you leave in the morning, usually, you almost sing as you run out the door. But this morning, just like last night, you droop."

"You're right," Kristina said, and sat fooling with the pot of honey, not knowing where to begin, or if she even wanted to.

Anneke undid her long braid, ignoring her own rule against fixing hair at the table. Her tortoiseshell comb worked back and forth like a loom's shuttle through the white-streaked gray, weaving Anneke's thoughts into order as she sat quietly waiting for Kristina to speak.

"I've met a man," Kristina finally said.

"Well, I knew that." Anneke's hair covered her shoulders with a shiny silvery mass. "A musician?"

"Somewhat. He doesn't play professionally, but he plays beautifully. Violin, like Papa, and keyboard too. He makes harmoniums, both the small ones you can carry with you, and the large ones that sit in the parlor. He's traveled in North Africa, worked as a builder," and her voice trailed off. "How did you know?"

"About the man, or the musician?"

"Yes."

"Because ever since I've come to know you, dear, you've had a love-hate relationship with music. Music is in your blood, but when it came time to put those talents into the bank instead of burying them underground, so to speak, you balked. Not because you couldn't do the work, but because, I think, you were afraid that by doing the work, music would turn into something mechanical, something you did because you had to, because Cornelius and I made you. It's the narrow line we walk between love and dedication. Too much in either direction produces monstrosities - either uncontrolled passions, or dry and joyless duty. But about three months ago, I noticed that you started singing again around the house. When you got up early in the morning to go to the Opera, you spent more and more time at the mirror, and your face glowed."

"It's embarrassing; you see through me like water."

"Dear, do you think I was always old? I remember leaving the house breathless with excitement, too, knowing someone waited for me."

"He met me in Ploumanac'h. Put your eyebrow down; he didn't even stay at the Rising Sun. He met me after Papa's Mass, and we spent the day walking on the rocks at the beach. We went to the farm where he stays up there, and I met the farmer's wife, and then we went by to look at the old cottage."

"Imagine that, it's still standing. You say he didn't go to Mass. So he's not Catholic?"

"He is, but not religious."

"Typical for a French man," Anneke said, sounding almost disappointed. "Whatever that means, to 'not be religious.' Everyone's religious; it just depends on what kind. Before we met you and your father, Cornelius and I used to have this cellist over for musical evenings, a big Russian man who smoked these little cigarettes that made us turn green, they smelled so foul. We had to fumigate the rooms when he left. He always argued with Papa about his own brand of skeptical atheism. Such faith that man had. He was a far better atheist than I've ever been a Christian."

"Oh, spare me the false humility."

"Atheism mixed with skepticism almost reduced him to idiocy. He could play the cello like an angel, but if you asked him if the barn was painted red on far side, he'd refuse to answer. It was impossible to have a conversation with the man; I don't know how Cornelius managed. After he died, I hoped God credited him something for his blind obstinacy. How old is your musician?"

"About thirty-five. Oh, don't look like that. Dr. Sibelius was at least ten years older than you, wasn't he?"

"Fifteen. So he's the one you've been meeting with in the mornings, then."

"We sing together, or he accompanies me and I sing. He has the most remarkable 'chest voice' that vibrates right through you. He's taught me how to sing in the high range with this depth and richness I didn't think was possible, and people really hear the difference."

"So you pay him for lessons?"

"No, he refused, and almost got angry at the suggestion. He's quiet and shy, normally, but," and then Kristina fell silent, twisting her napkin.

Anneke waited, saying nothing for a long moment as the early morning air sat heavily between them, and then said, "But there's something else."

"Anneke, I don't know where to start. Louvel de Coucy followed me up to Ploumanac'h. Oh, look, now you've spilled your tea. Here, let me get it. The cup isn't cracked. Don't look like that, I didn't invite him. Well, I did write him to let him know Papa had died, and that there was to be a Mass. I thought he would just pray for him, or have a Mass said here. I never suspected he would show up. We had dinner, where he said all kinds of embarrassing things to me, and then he made a dreadful scene late that night, chasing after Alberich in the churchyard …"

"Alberich? So he has a name, after all, or at least part of one."

"Alberich Niemann. Of course he has a name, and even a town. He's from Rennes. Louvel got bitterly jealous, and chased him into the churchyard, where he tried to draw him into some kind of fight. Then Louvel slipped and hit his head. He spent the night on the altar steps, and was brought back to the hotel half-frozen. There was this old doctor there who took care of him; he drove me to the Lannion station, and, Anneke, I don't know what to do. I'm sick with worry. That doctor made me sick to my stomach."

"Slow down, I can barely understand you. Why did he make you sick?" and now both grey eyebrows were up, and her half-braided hair almost crackled.

"It was what he said. Not about me, not directly, but about Alberich."

"What about him? Get to it, child."

This was the hard part, like climbing over rocks on the granite coastline, and Kristina swallowed hard. "He has something wrong with his face, on the upper half. It's been like that since birth. It's not bad, really, at least not to me. People think he's been burned, or hurt in the Prussian war, even though he's not that old. But Dr. Bergamos asked me all kinds of questions on the way to Lannion, and told me I should ask Alberich …" and she had to stop at this point and wipe her eyes as the terrible feeling of everything going wrong flooded over her again. She blinked back tears.

"Oh, Lord," Anneke said. "I know what he thought."

"I did too, and it's too awful to think about. He told me I could catch it. But then after I told him more, he didn't seem to think that was it at all. Anneke, I almost kissed him."

"Who, the doctor?"

Kristina burst into a hysterical bark. Then both women laughed until the tears Kristina had saved up leaked out all on their own.

Anneke waited for Kristina to catch her breath, and then said, "It's odd, because just a few months ago I started translating science articles from the French newspapers and magazines. The embassy used to want politics; now everything they want is science, all academy stuff. I have to sit there in the library with half a dozen dictionaries, just to make sure I get it all down right. But I just did one a few months ago on monsters, you know, accidents of birth. It's a shame - if a man has a war wound or is burned like Cornelius's poor student, then everyone showers him with sympathy. But let a man suffer from the start, and he's considered tainted."

"The doctor said he'd seen too many wives given the … taint … by their husbands."

"Oh, get the mush out of your mouth and just call it what it is. Its name is the pox, the great pox. Syphilis. Listen to me. The thief never keeps his money in a wallet. The murderer always watches his back. And to the doctor, everyone is ill. I make my daily bread reading the newspapers, and they all run on about the pox this, the pox that, how it's ruining France, how it's God's judgment, and so on. They'd like you to think most everyone has it, but I have news for you - if they did, people would be dropping in the streets, and it would be a miracle there were any healthy children at all."

"Louvel went on and on about God's judgment, too. He practically came out and called me a 'light woman.' "

"He did, did he? Speaking from his vast experience, no doubt."

"He wants to save me. Anneke, you remember Louvel, how sweet he was. He's nothing like that anymore. It's like I don't even know him. He thinks if he uses the right words, it will all just come together, like magic, but there's nothing beneath it."

"Putting cow piss in a fluted glass doesn't make it champagne. Look at what a man does, not what he says, that's my rule of thumb. Louvel will either prove himself, or he won't. But about that doctor - I suspect he was running his tongue to have the attentions of a pretty girl for an hour, and perhaps a little jealous of the fifty years between your Alberich and him. He was an old one, right?"

"Old as Methusaleh. He did give Louvel a good tongue-lashing, though. You would have appreciated it."

"I'm not saying he's a bad doctor. I think his foolishness comes on account of being a man." Then her face grew soft, and she took Kristina's hand into the fragile birdcage of bones that made up her own. "How does this man, Alberich, look at you?"

"Like I'm a pool he could drown in. He has the most beautiful eyes, dark brown, almost black, and I know he's always looking at me, but never directly when I can see it. If I catch him at it, he glances away, and he's just there, aware of me, taking me in. When he does face me, it's as if everything for him stops. Did Dr. Sibelius ever look at you that way?"

"Yes, yes," she said absently, and seemed to go far into the past. For a brief second Kristina saw the long wooden hall lit with whale-oil lamps, heard the tromp of high-buttoned shoes and heavy boots in time to the fiddle and accordion, felt the whirl of skirts and the strong arm around a waist, sneezed under the brushy gold moustache, melted under the liquid long looks of the late summer evening. _That's not Professor Sibelius_, Kristina thought, slightly shocked. _Where did all that come from?_ Anneke had never told her anything like that, and yet there it was, fresh in her imagination as if she had been there herself.

"Kristina," Anneke said finally, "Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid to ask questions. If the way he looks away means anything, sooner or later he will answer them."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Eating soup in the opera kitchen, Kristina caught Camille Letourneau's eye, and over she came, trailing an odor of tobacco and a young blonde chorus girl.

"How's your new contract?" Camille asked. The blonde stared at Kristina with frank hostility, and Kristina stared back with a look that said, I know exactly where you bought that bleach for your hair. Ignoring the girl, Kristina said to Camille, "Haven't gotten it yet." She grimaced at the bowl of soup with too little potato, too much onion, and far too much water.

"You're one of the last, then. Didn't you get the letter?"

"I have a stack from when I got back from Ploumanac'h, and I haven't had the heart to even look at it. It's probably in there."

"Oh, Ploumanac'h - now that you mention it, we heard about your wild time in that godforsaken hole. Why go there for a rendezvous, Svenska, when you can find some cozy upholstered spot right here in Paris?"

Her companion laughed, then immediately silenced herself when Kristina glared at her. "What is this place, a fishbowl?" Kristina snapped. "Where do you hear these things?"

"The mighty Comte de Coucy plopped his 24 karat plump and hairless ass in Mirella's rooms last night and proceeded to complain loudly about some 'wench who treads the boards' - his very words - who threw his precious baby brother over and gave him pleurisy in the process. Everyone on the corridor heard it. It's you, right?"

The blonde had transformed into an unblinking owl, with blue eyes as watery as the soup. Glaring at her didn't seem to do any good anymore. "Do you have to stare?" Kristina said. "Perhaps all this dull conversation bores you, and you would like to go get us some bread."

Letourneau jerked her head toward the kitchen and the girl ran off.

"I know you'll tell her anyway," Kristina went on, "but she really doesn't have to gape like that."

Camille ignored her, and went on with her interrogation. "You don't want Etienne de Coucy irritated with you. What'd you do to get his dander up? Or whatever else he has that rises to the occasion, because Mirella's after your neck, too. She thinks you're moving in on ballet territory."

"Well, since you seem to be the telegraph line of gossip here, you can pass it on to La Mirella that this singer leaves the dancing to the ballerinas."

The blonde returned with a plate of dry, spongy white bread.

"Thank you!" Kristina beamed at her, but the sullen look stayed on the girl's face. "So with your contract - did they give you a hard time?" Kristina asked Camille.

"Dreadful arguments. They tried to squeeze me for every centime. Only two days off between performances, fines for missed rehearsals, and the opera doctor has to sign off on any missed engagements."

"I'd like to see them fine Renata for rehearsals. She's been to exactly two since I arrived."

"She's 'sick' all the time, too."

"I know - but I profit from it."

"Too bad you're healthy as a horse yourself, Svenska. Where's my profit from that?"

"At this rate, I'll get sick, and you won't be able to replace me because you'll have no voice. I suppose that's considered good business sense."

"You should hear Lorello," Camille smirked as she buttered bread. "He threatened to go back to the Comic Opera, so they caved. I should have thought of that myself. But you used to sing there, so maybe that would help you. It worked for the old bear."

The women sat quietly and crunched bread. Camille's crudities did grow on one, even if she did smoke thin cigars and collect girls. And both Kristina and Camille loved Lorello.

"Mirella's also not happy with her new understudy," Camille said. "She says it's because she has too much of the stink of cabaret perfume on her, but I think it's on principle. The girl's six years younger, with that perfect tiny Parisian girl prettiness."

"Mirella's what, thirty?"

"Vicious bitch, you are. She's twenty-seven. I don't worry about age myself. I'll sing until I dry up and crackle. One day I'll go in to the office and hear the words, 'No renewal.' Or I'll play Juliette's nurse for twenty years. But I'd rather hear those words from a manager than the man buying my silver shoe buckles." Camille was almost thirty, but the lines around her eyes and her yellow-stained fingers made her look older. Her frizzy hair had too much henna in it. Stage makeup concealed the lines, but she remained in the chorus because she not only scorned a patron, she scorned the conventions that made a patron necessary.

After lunch, Camille and Kristina walked arm and arm into the rehearsal hall, with Camille's blonde friend trailing and glaring behind. The late afternoon sun made the dust motes in the wood-paneled hall glitter. The "old hands" knew _Faust_ backwards and forwards, but new management meant new singers and dancers, some of them unfamiliar with the music. Renata's secretary sat busily taking notes and ignored Kristina pointedly when Kristina once more donned the mantle of Marguerite. Kristina wondered why if Renata didn't want her taking her place, why she couldn't simply show up? But there was no point in asking. Anyway, Kristina knew Marguerite backwards and forwards. It was such an old standby, really. Why not do something new, or at least a new version? She sighed and squirmed on the hard wooden bench, waiting for rehearsal to start.

A new repetiteur stood at the podium, tall and lean everywhere except his paunch. He brushed his hand a few times over his balding scalp, and looked primly down his nose at the players as if they were nursery children.

"How about an introduction?" a man called out from the chorus.

He looked over sharply, "Who spoke out of turn?"

"What is he, a lousy schoolmaster?" said Camille as she and her blonde friend sidled up beside Kristina on the bench.

No one said anything, so the new man tapped the podium again. "I am Monsieur Rossignol. I hope everyone will live up to my expectations."

It was hard not to giggle. "Do you think that's his real name?" Kristina whispered to Camille.

"No doubt his first name is 'Doux,'" Camille replied.

"Oh, sweet nightingale. How precious."

A loud rapping interrupted them. "Ladies, enough. We're going to run these rehearsals efficiently here. Stop chattering."

Camille made a face as everyone took their places. Monsieur Rossignol, it turned out, did run a smooth rehearsal, oblivious to the glares directed to the back of his shiny head.

"Five minutes for the last act. Get ready, everyone," he called.

Riali came up to Lorello and Kristina with a wicked grin. "This fellow needs a proper welcome to the Eclectic Theater. Know what I would count as the supreme achievement of my career? If during one performance, just one, instead of striding over to the lift to get elevated to heaven, Marguerite would just walk over to Faust, take his hand, and exit stage right. Then my Mephisto could suitably gnash his teeth and wail. Wouldn't you love it, Lorello?"

"I don't like to wear tomatoes in my hair," the burly tenor said. "Not that Parisians fight with tomatoes here; instead, they use critics in the newspapers."

"Perhaps we'd get arrested," Kristina joked. "After all, back Maestro Gounod had to change his ending, to get it performed at all. It would be a major scandal."

"Let's do it during rehearsal," Riali whispered. "See if anybody notices."

"You're crazy," Lorello said.

"No, just in character. Come on, just this once."

A delicious wickedness rose up inside Kristina. Riali felt it and hugged her tightly. "Come on," he urged. "Your reputation's too perfect. If I can't corrupt you at the bistro, at least let me corrupt you thoroughly on the stage."

"I'm in. I can't wait to see their faces."

Lorello frowned, but it was more the frown an indulgent father gives to his girls when they want one too many ices, or another kitten, when he has to look like he means 'no,' but he really wants to say yes. Eventually he does, and so did Lorello. "So how do we do this?" he asked.

"Lorello, your Faust is imploring Marguerite, as usual, on stage right," Riali said, "and I'm right next to you, getting beaten down by all those angels, as usual. Camille, my angel, you don't really have to hit me as hard as you did last time. Then Svenska moves to stage right instead of back center stage, and holds out her hand to you. Keep belting _Anges pur_, Svenska, but don't look like you're dying, and don't go over to where the angels all assemble. We won't be using the lift anyway, so the chorus'll just stand around singing and showing their armpits. And lovely ones you do have, Camille, my dear. I could bury my nose in them, if you'd only allow it. Ouch! Bad kitten, she scratches! Then, Svenska, you reach out to Lorello, and Lorello, you take Svenska's hand and pull her toward you, so it's really obvious she's going with you, then exit stage right, and I'll do some overdone wailing and weeping all of my own."

Lorello was grinning now. "It'll be worth it, to see Signore Songbird's face."

The piano accompanist banged out the chords as the three moved into position. Kristina put on her most repentant face and could have been the Magdalen herself. Then, as planned, when Lorello's eyes begged her to come over to his importune Faust, she turned toward him instead of heavenward. Rossignol looked sharply at Kristina but didn't rap his baton. The pianist continued as if entranced, and Lorello gave Kristina his best look of naked appeal, his big brown eyes melting like chocolate in the sun. Kristina flushed deep pink. _Oh, Annarose, you are so lucky. Did he look at you that way when he asked you to marry him_?

She walked over to the big, greying man with hand extended. Tenderly he pulled her towards him as they waltzed toward stage right in an embrace. As if coming back to life, Rossignol gave three sharp raps of the baton, and gave the angry command, "Stop playing, you! Stop it, all of you! What are you doing?" Tenor, soprano, and baritone continued to sing, and so did the chorus. Everyone not in the scene gathered around, with faces either shocked or laughing.

One man raised his fist and shook it in approval. "That's it," he shouted. "Take her right off to paradise."

The piano had stopped, but on Kristina and Lorello went singing. Lorello took her in his arms for a stage kiss, his smiling mouth off to the side of hers, not touching. When she patted his large, soft chest he did embrace her, warmly, resting his face on hers. She went all loose in his arms, and he half held, half carried her off to the right. A fresh wave of shouts and laughter rang through the watchers as Riali capered about lewdly, shaking his fist and pretending to curse. His devil-minions came out to join him as they also delved into the fun.

Lorello turned, planted one final quick kiss on Kristina's cheek, a real one this time, and started to bow. So she did too, as did Riali. Shouts of "Bravi! Bravi!" came from the cast. Even the young accompanist shyly clapped her long, thin hands.

"Thank you, thank you, for our latest and best improvement to the ending of Faust," Riali cackled, ignoring the new repetiteur's angry face, and then preened and strutted at the cheers, raucous shouts, and catcalls from the rest of the cast.

Rossignol looked disgusted, but simply said, "Now that we've had our little joke, we no longer have time to do it right," and looked stiffly away. His hands shook a little as he laid down his baton.

Camille gave Kristina a light punch on the arm. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Wouldn't you love to see it on stage? They'd riot."

"Not one of us would get out of there alive."

"I was watching Rossignol's face. He almost fell over. Marguerite running off with Faust. Imagine that," and they held each other and laughed almost to tears.

Riali wedged himself in between Camille and Kristina, saying, "You kissed Faust, now where's mine?"

"Where's your what?"

"My kiss - after all, this was my idea, and it went over higher than Montgolfier's balloons."

"Most of those got shot down," Camille remarked.

"Do you come with buckets of cold water attached, or do you have to fetch them from the well?" There was a laugh in his voice, but Riali gave Camille a cold glare.

"It was a better ending, I agree," Kristina remarked, pulling Riali towards her for a quick, sisterly peck. She spun out of his arm's reach as he leaned over for more.

"Escort you home, Svenska?" he said with a foxy grin.

"I don't think so. I have a few things to do here, and for all I know, you're still in character."

Suddenly a clear voice rang through the rehearsal hall. "So you think it's funny to mock God's laws? You laugh when Marguerite gets led off to hell?" The room fell silent as a small pale figure separated herself from the angelic chorus and looked around with blazing eyes. It was Camille's friend, the blonde chorister.

"Save it for Sunday, sweetheart," a man called out.

She turned around angrily. "God isn't mocked. You've cursed _Faust_ in this house, with your jests. You, especially, with your wanton glances," and she pointed to Kristina, her face hard with hostility.

Kristina squirmed under dozens of suddenly staring eyes. Camille said out of the corner of her mouth, "I'm as surprised as you are. I didn't know she was the pious type. She could have fooled me."

Rossignol hit the podium so hard with his baton that it broke. The top piece skittered over toward the blonde's feet, and she picked it up absently. Her set face was more frightening than her words; it was as if she were locked deeply in dream.

He looked at his broken baton, shook his head and then shouted, "This rehearsal's over. Be prepared to do it right next time! Next time I fine you all!"

Camille hurried over to her friend and took her by the arm, leading her away. Lorello solemnly raised his fingers and spit, warding off the evil eye. Riali had disappeared entirely, and no one spoke to Kristina as the group broke up. As she left the hall, Renata's secretary eyed her coldly all the way out the door, and she felt his gimlet gaze all the long walk home.

As Kristina brushed through the apartment door, the maid Amelie blocked her way with her squat arms planted firmly on her hips, some correspondence in her hands.

"What's this?" Amelie said. "Two letters with de Coucy seals. Are you fishing in deep waters, my girl? They look like invitations to the Contessa's ball."

Kristina snatched the letters from Amelie and flew into her bedroom, shutting the door on Amelie's deep laughter. Reading these would be easier with tea, certainly, but that would mean having to meet Amelie's mockery in the kitchen, and she had been known to grab a letter out of Kristina's hand before. All for her own good, of course.

One was from Louvel, and one from Etienne. Which one to open first? She studied the outsides carefully. Etienne's hand was firmer than his brother's, almost embossed into the paper. It spoke of confidence.

He had invited her to supper at his private room at the Café Bretano on Rue-de-la-Guerre, the very next evening at 9:00 PM. There was a matter of "mutual importance" they had to discuss. His brother had unfortunately contracted a "non-trivial illness of the chest," but was recovering, and hoped Kristina could shed some light on the events which led to his "extreme emotional outpouring." He also apologized for any irregularities in his brother's manners, and hoped that she would not judge the fine name or reputation of their family on "my brother's most unfortunate boyish behavior."

_He does his background work_, she thought. _He probably checked the schedule and saw that I don't sing tomorrow night. He doesn't miss anything._

She threw the letter down on the counterpane, resigned that a person might as well get hung twice in a day as once, and opened the other one.

_My dearest Christine:_

_The doctor tells me that I am able to sit and write now, as I am out of danger from the catarrhal pleurisy which overtook me after my return to Paris from Ploumanac'h._

_Darling Christine, why did you leave so abruptly? I desperately apologize for the weakened state that left me unable to communicate to you the vast importance of your presence, and my great desire to accompany you on the train back to Paris. No doubt your native shyness overcame you, and you wished to continue to savor our friendship in the more conducive environs of Paris._

_Although I am still confined to bed, I plan to call on you at the earliest moment permitted by my recovery, and until then will anxiously remain,_

_Your childhood friend, etc._

Sitting at her desk, she placed the two letters beside one another. How embarrassing, to have two brothers insisting on writing you, and each obviously each ignorant of the other's doings. She drew out a sheet of writing paper.

_My dear Monsieur Comte de Coucy,_

_Thank you for your kind invitation to supper at the Café Bretano. It's such an invigorating and bustling environment, so full of theater people and their admirers. I look forward to seeing you there at 9:00 PM._

_With deepest sincerity, etc._

Etienne's brushy moustache and brown hair had no silver in them, and were still thick despite his years. She knew why he had picked the Bretano, that favorite trysting-place for anyone with a singing or dancing mistress. He wanted to remind her of her place, and that she'd better not stray out of it. What game was on his mind, however? It was ignoble and juvenile, to steal one's younger brother's toys, and so presumptuous, not to even ask the toy's opinion.

She decided to hold off on writing Louvel until she saw what Etienne wanted. If he raged at her, he'd get a glass of water thrown in his face, and she'd stomp right out. It's not like anyone at the Bretano hadn't seen that trick before, either.

In the narrow dark kitchen, Amelie looked surprised as Kristina put on a red-embroidered apron and prepared to help her with the supper. "So which one are you going on a carriage ride with?" Amelie said.

"What makes you think I'd go on a carriage ride with either one?"

"Good girl. These aristocrats," and here Amelie almost spit into the sink, "think they can manhandle a girl any way they want. They haven't figured out that times have changed." Amelie, ever the staunch Republican, cut carrots with such vehemence that Kristina feared for her fingers, and while she didn't see what had changed, Amelie didn't give her a chance to argue as she continued on, "So what did they want, if not a carriage ride?"

Might as well tell her, Kristina sighed to herself. "Louvel fancies me, and his brother thinks I'm a bounder, trying to rise above my station. I think Etienne de Coucy wants to warn me off. The one he really needs to warn off is his brother."

Amelie frowned and threw the carrots into the pot, carefully wrapping the tops and tips in a piece of paper. "The mistress says you always had a soft spot in you for horses. You can take these with you to the stable. Are you sure that warning you off is the first thing in his mind?"

"He already has someone, a dancer at the theater named Mirella."

"Oh, that's stopped so many men before. So how old are these two?"

"Louvel is twenty-two, and Etienne is thirty-eight."

"That's an interesting spread. My guess is the gentleman spent most of his time in Paris, and left the lady of the house out in the country. And neither brother's married. That's odd, don't you think?"

"Louvel is a Navy man, so I don't suppose he'd want a wife right now. Both brothers have been on the top of every hostess list for every salon in Paris, but no one's trapped either of them yet."

"Only the women get long in the tooth, never the men," Amelie observed. "So what's wrong with the young aristocrat, then? Most girls in that set would find him a good catch if their Mama picked him for them."

"If I get a formal proposal, you'll be the first to know. Honestly, I don't know what Louvel wants. He thinks because we spent some summers together as adolescents, and then one afternoon together, that should somehow mean more to me than it does."

"That's heartless."

"No … you misunderstand. It's that I don't know him anymore, and in some ways, I don't know myself. I could like him, probably, if he stopped panting like a big puppy for attention. If he would just let me breathe. Amelie, he showed up at my hotel in Ploumanac'h …"

"What?" Amelie interrupted, waving her kitchen knife.

"It's not what you think! Put that thing down before you take off my nose! It was my fault for writing him, to tell him about Papa's Mass. But what started it all, I think, is that he has been coming to the theater every night that I sing. He won't miss a performance. I don't think he sees me at all, but rather the dress and the hair and the voice. He's stage-struck. As for Etienne, I don't know."

"I do," Amelie said darkly.

"How can you say that? Is there no man you trust? You were married, after all."

"That's right. You answered your own question."

Not liking this turn of conversation, Kristina set the table, wondering if she should have written Etienne in that flippant tone. He wasn't the sort of man to have angry with you.

The next evening, Anneke watched Kristina with a critical eye as she dressed to meet Etienne for supper. "You certainly got Amelie into a furor."

"She's very untrusting. She's already got me installed in a comfortable apartment somewhere, with Moroccan carpets on the floor, peacock feathers in the vase, and everything."

"Don't be too harsh on her. You don't know her story."

"So tell me," Kristina said as Anneke laced up Kristina's stays, and helped her slip on the sober grey dress.

"You'll look like a postulant on her way to the convent," Anneke remarked.

"Good. I don't want Etienne de Coucy getting any ideas. It's bad enough I'm meeting him at the Bretano's, in a private room, even. The entire theater will know of it tomorrow. What's Amelie's story?"

"Don't be flippant. She's had a hard life."

Kristina had made Anneke lace her stays up just a little tighter than usual, as the grey dress was a snug fit. Best not to eat much dinner. She smoothed the fabric down in front of the mirror and, pleased with the silhouette, turned to do her hair. A pair of jet earrings and a matching jet brooch at the neckline made it perfect.

Over her shoulder, Anneke's face appeared in the mirror, livid with eyes of fire. Kristina turned around, alarmed, and stepped back at the fury in her glance. "Good heavens, Anneke, what's wrong?"

"I thought you might like to know what you want to ignore."

"I'm just going out. You've never objected before."

"It's not the going out. It's your inability to pay attention to another human being right now."

"I am paying attention - look, I'm listening to you."

"It's not me, you goose. Do you have to have everything spelled out for you? Amelie's husband left her with a three-year old girl, got on a boat for Haiti, and attached himself to a sugar plantation where he got both the job of foreman, and someone to warm his bed. His new girl was seventeen years, who'd recently emigrated from France because she'd disgraced her family somehow and had no marriage prospects. She moved into his cottage on the plantation and they soon raised one big happy family. Amelie got left holding the bag, with that slow-witted daughter of hers who has no chance of marrying, and that ancient mother who imagines a new illness every month. If she had them all, she'd be dead five times over by now."

"No wonder she sounded bitter. Poor Amelie."

"No wonder at all. Be careful, Kristina. Etienne de Coucy sounds like an old badger."

"He's probably just going to tell me to stay away from his brother, and I'm going to tell him that I would gladly do so, if he could get his brother under control and keep him from following me all over France."

Anneke looked doubtfully at Kristina, obviously disbelieving her. What was it with these older women? Kristina wondered. They saw trouble coming from every direction.

(Continued …)


	15. Slumming

**Slumming**

Kristina made sure to wait a good twenty minutes past the time appointed to meet Etienne de Coucy, before putting her hand to the brass-trimmed, cut-glass door of the Bretano. The head waiter looked her up and down several times before giving her the barest of polite bows. "We have no tables for single ladies tonight," he said, glancing around and behind her, as if waiting for some invisible gentleman to appear.

"I'm not here as a single lady. I'm meeting the Comte de Coucy in his private room."

His eyes narrowed to glittering black slits. Once again he scanned her dress, her hair, everything, and plainly she didn't measure up.

"One moment, Mademoiselle," he said as he spun away on his heel. He stopped to whisper to another waiter, and the phrase, "He's slumming tonight," came through quite clearly.

Kristina had come to this restaurant for quick luncheons in between rehearsals, but never in the evening. Her grey nun-like dress faded into obscurity against a riot of teals, mauve, pinks, vermilion, and fur, everywhere furs of all different shades and types. Near the door, a fat man in a tuxedo sat with two women, each with a fox piece draped around her neck. They made the sharp-muzzled heads with their glittery eyes play-fight with each other over the mountain of the man's stomach. He leaned back, and the two women ran the little dangling feet of their fur pieces up and down his Jovian slopes.

A band played a mazurka, and two women pranced together on the small shining floor. One took the pink rose from her hair and set it down into the copious bosom of the other, right in between her breasts. When they returned to the table, a third woman bent over to sniff it, and they all shrieked with laughter.

A tall, elegant man dressed in plum velvet passed Kristina, staring at her hair. _These people invade you with their eyes_, she thought. She jumped back when he reached out to stroke the side of her head with his dark purple glove. "The midnight sun is rising tonight," he said softly. "So beautiful. You can tell it's real." He hovered over her as he fingered a few wisps which had come free.

"Even if you could get it out of a bottle, it's not your color. Don't bother," she snapped, and with a little head-shrug of indignation, he spun away towards the bar.

_Where was that waiter?_ In another second, she would be out that door, meeting with Etienne or no. The waiter swayed over and said, "This way, Mademoiselle. The Comte is expecting you," as if he didn't believe it yet himself, and was waiting for the whole joke to land right on Kristina's head.

A bright fire lit the small room, but she could barely recognize the Comte de Coucy as he rose from the shadows to greet her with an exaggerated bow. She could see the slight thinning of the hair on his fox-colored crown, and even a few flakes of dry skin.

Even this gesture of acceptance wasn't enough for the waiter. He hesitated just a fraction too long before pulling out Kristina's chair, so De Coucy brusquely presented it himself.

The fire crackled in its rough-hewn stone bed. "Champagne, Mademoiselle?" the waiter asked.

"Thank you, I will."

"I am so delighted you came tonight, my dear girl. May I call you Christine, in honor of your long-abiding friendship with my brother?"

"Kristina would be fine," she said, pronouncing it properly, "and I'll take the liberty of calling you Etienne."

"I never mastered the ruder Scandinavian tongues, so you'll forgive me if I stick to the comforts of Mother France." He turned to the waiter and said, "Bring the oysters."

Kristina stared at two grayish, shapeless lumps sitting in their briny slop. When she touched one with her fork it jiggled slightly. It was raw, with a slice of lemon on the side.

Etienne sucked his oyster right out of the shell, fluid and all. Kristina could hear her sixth form teacher dispassionately describing how the oyster stored up its urine in its shell, until the creature opened up again to void. Well, it was one thing to poke it on the dissecting tray. Now she had to eat it. She covered it with lemon juice, hoping that would kill the taste, picked hers up exactly as Etienne did, and poured it into her mouth, oyster piss and all.

It sat in the back of her throat like thick mucus and refused to go down. The briny bitterness burned her tongue. _Not so much lemon juice next time. That was a bad idea. Luckily there's only one left on the plate. Well, I'm committed to it now. Open up, throat, just a bit more - that's it - ugh, there it goes, sliding down like some dead sticky ball. _

Etienne chuckled. "Your first oyster?"

Kristina nodded, swallowing hard, chasing the slippery mass with a deep drink of champagne.

"Easy on that," and he smiled even wider. "You're not used to it, I'm sure."

"Delicious," she said.

"Would you like another? I had planned the goose liver, but I can send it back. Tonight you're my guest, and I want you to enjoy yourself."

_Another oyster? Oh, no. Anything but that. _"I think the goose liver was a wonderful choice. Please don't inconvenience anyone for me."

Shoulders shaking with some secret amusement, he watched her face intently as the waiter sat before them a small _roulade_ of liver wrapped in bacon.

_What kind of liver is this, almost entirely white, all fat with a few streaks of brown?_ It squished like warm wax in her mouth, burnt on the outside, paste-like on the inside. She choked it down, smiling. More champagne made it bearable. Maybe that was why the French drank so much of the stuff."The fire is lovely," she said, gesturing toward the lively orange flames.

"Like you, _bella donna_," he said as he took her hand.

She gently withdrew it. "How is Louvel? Recovering well?"

The change in his shoulders was remarkable. Sloping and relaxed before, they pulled up into hunched knots. His hair crackled reddish in the firelight. "He's out of bed now, but still resting. Perhaps you should have some more champagne," and he signaled to the waiter. "It makes you so delightfully not to the point."

She sipped instead of draining the glass as before. Already her head buzzed, and the tip of her nose felt slightly numb. A little wicked flame of laughter flicked on in her belly. "It doesn't take a dancer to be _en pointe_."

"Touche."

"I assumed that's why you'd invited me here, to discuss Louvel and his recovery."

He opened his mouth to speak, right as the waiter placed a thin, light green soup before them. A small, oddly-shaped white ball floated on the top. Kristina didn't dare ask.

He'd recovered his balance and leaned toward her. "Artichoke soup with lobster quenelle."

You little peasant, was the unspoken other half of the sentence_. Why am I flirting and toadying up to him? Why won't he just come out and say what he wants? Well, if he won't, I will. _"Louvel thinks he's in love with me."

She expected him to waffle and sidestep her, but instead he said, "Louvel _is_ in love with you. To be honest, Christine, I'm trying to talk him out of it."

"Why?" she blurted. When the waiter removed Kristina's soup bowl, he looked down at her with the dedicated intent of a bird about to peck a reptile_. Lorello believes in the evil eye. He'd hang garlic around his neck every day if he had to look at this one on stage._

"You disappoint me, dear. I didn't think you were the type to collect hearts. You're more the type to be collected than to collect."

"Has Louvel told you what happened when he followed me to Ploumanac'h?"

"He followed you? The story he told me was that you wrote him, asking for a rendezvous, and when he got there, your time was, shall we say, otherwise occupied. You do surprise me."

"That's the only kind of woman you'd dine with, Etienne, one who gave you at least one surprise a day. No, I didn't invite him up. He knew my father when we were young. My father died a few years ago, and I wrote Louvel to tell him. I happened to mention that there would be a Mass of remembrance."

"Such a little innocent. Dangle the sweetmeat before the hound, and then cry out when it snaps it up."

The only way to cure the flush from too much champagne was to drink more of it. Kristina barely noticed the sliver of salmon set in front of her, jellylike and pink with some kind of red sauce drizzled over it. It looked almost raw, with its bloody garnish.

The waiter put a few more logs on the fire.

"You have to understand," Etienne went on, and he sounded as if he were a long way off, "Louvel is at heart just a boy. He has been in the Navy for three years, and at sea for the past five months. He looks forward to a leave, while he decides whether or not to renew his commission. He's a young man, full of life, and so he goes to the theater, where he sees this beautiful singer. That happens every day, you say, and you would be right. But this singer happens to be one he knows, and being a tender soul, he wants to meet her. She ignores his notes and so when he gets one from her, his heart flies out of his breast and right into her soft little white hand," and he stroked the back of Kristina's delicately, lightly. "You can imagine the beating of his heart in the cage of her hand." His voice gradually deepened as his stroke grew softer and more seductive. "He flies up to meet her, only to find another one has gotten to the coop before him. He goes out to challenge his rival, to assess his intentions, and instead of facing him man to man, this churl slips away from him into the night, where our tender-hearted boy succumbs to the elements. Then the lady flies back to Paris, leaving him to recover alone, no doubt thinking that his heart will beat even harder for her if she leaves him."

"A pretty story," Kristina said, "and almost true. If I loved him, do you think I would have gone back to Paris that morning?"

"_Donna e mobile_," he said, holding her hand palm up in his, where his fingers ran in tickling circles around the palm. The little flicker of pleasure on the inside of her hand matched the warmth of the room from the fire, and slowly her eyes closed as the tide inside joined with the swirl of his fingers on her hand, sweet and languorous.

The waiter took away her uneaten fish, and placed a slice of rare roast beef with some squirts of what looked like soft potato, but greenish. At least it bore some resemblance to real food. She slid her hand out from Etienne's, and fell to, the warmth in her belly suddenly opening into a hole that she wanted to fill. As she picked up a dollop of the green stuff, she asked, "What's this?" right before putting it into her mouth. It no longer mattered if she looked stupid in front of the strange food and the hawklike waiter.

Etienne called out, "Christine! Wait!" but it was too late.

Her mouth felt like a torch had been lit in it. She spat the greenish mess into a napkin and almost gagged. "Here," Etienne said, handing her his champagne glass, "This will cut the taste."

She drank the entire glass at once. The room took on a soft remote glow as her mouth cooled. "What was that?" Her voice sounded odd, as if she were talking underwater. Etienne looked suddenly happy, but he didn't answer at once. "What was that?" she repeated, and started to laugh, because her own speech warbled against a curtain of champagne. "Is there an echo in here?"

"The chef is creative tonight," he said, and he sounded far away too. "That was something new. Only a few in Paris are using it, a kind of horseradish from the Nippon Islands called _wasabi_. You take only a tiny bit of it, not a mouthful. You are a little innocent, aren't you?"

_So close he's sitting, and what's that, reaching across my plate?_ "Perhaps I shouldn't trust you with a knife." _And why is he cutting my roast into small pieces?_

"Open up, little bird," he said, and in went one piece of roast, then another. Kristina leaned back in the soft chair and let him feed her as the laughter simmered up inside, and then they both laughed when she gave a small burp.

"Not much room in here," she said.

"Perhaps some sorbet," he said to the waiter, who stared at Kristina with barely concealed loathing. Kristina gave the waiter a long look right back, running her glance over his tight hips, noticing at the same time that her shoulder was pressed into Etienne's soft flank_. How did his arm get around behind me? _

When the sorbet came, it was cold and tart, and her head almost cleared a little. She giggled to herself, thinking that it would be fun to take a bath in the lime sorbet, not just eat it_._ Etienne watched her eat hers, then picked up his spoon and fed her his portion as well. His moustache bristled as he filled her glass with champagne again.

"I was hoping you would become Louvel's mistress," he said, sounding at once very sober. "He wrote me every other day while at sea. Could you believe it? It was all about Joaquim, one of the petty officers. Joaquim this, Joaquim said that, when Joaquim and I were on watch together we saw this. We played cards tonight, and Joaquim won. He's sailing in Mediterranean, patrolling the coast of Northern Africa, and does he write anything about the mission, the adventure, the ports of call? Nothing, only Joaquim, the son of a law clerk in Nice. I took care of it, I did. I wrote the Naval secretary, and when Louvel goes back on ship, it won't be with him. They'll never serve together again, not as long as I have anything to do with it."

"So you thought I could save him from a shipboard romance?" Kristina touched the tip of her nose to see if it was still there. It felt oddly numb. Then the sliding pieces of the conversation fit together. Slowly it dawned on her that Etienne wasn't talking about a cruise ship, but a ship of the fleet, and another sailor.

"I need to find him a wife," Etienne said, suddenly distracted from Kristina by his own thoughts.

She shifted a little, trying to get back into the circle of his attention. "But not me."

He laughed and put his lips on her palm, and as he licked it gently a flash of desire ran up her legs. "No, my little dove. Not you."

"What about you? Shouldn't the older brother marry before the younger?"

"My mother is already working on it. Sometime next year I'm sure she'll have found someone suitable, and then it will be Louvel's turn. Then he can have all the sailors he wants, as long as he keeps it out of the papers, and as long as one of us produces an heir."

"You know," Kristina said as he draped himself over her right side like a plump blanket, "I wouldn't have thought Louvel the type. Given that he's chasing me around, I mean."

Etienne ignored her remark. Coffee appeared before them, along with a lacy confection covered in delicate cream. Underneath the heavy white covering, a few tiny orange slices peeked out. Trust Etienne to find oranges in the middle of winter, she thought. She pulled one out as Etienne went on, "Then when he saw you in that one opera, which one was it, about the heretic king?"

"Henry. It was about Henry the something. I can't keep them all straight. The English have too many Henrys." Male flesh up against her side felt so good. "It was in _Anna Bolena_."

"He'd go to your dressing room, but wouldn't knock on the door. After a few rounds of that, I told him, just talk to her. Send her flowers. He did, but wouldn't sign a card. He went to every performance. If he'd gone to Mass like that, his sisters and mother couldn't have been happier. Now he tells me that he's in love. Christine, you have to help me here."

The sharp, strong coffee gradually cut through the fog. "Help you how?"

"If you want to take him on, I won't stand in your way. I'll see that he treats you properly and takes care of you. But don't talk of love, please. It just can't lead to anything. You know what I mean."

"Lead to anything?" Kristina's head felt wrapped in cotton, and Etienne's words made no sense. "If I were Louvel's mistress, it would lead to something, all right."

His hot breath grazed her face. "He hasn't said anything to you, then?"

"Said what? He said a lot in Ploumanac'h, most of it pretty words piled on top of words. I know he didn't like the food. He wanted to take me out to a nice restaurant, not an inn run by peasants. What else would he have said? He certainly didn't act like he wanted me as his own personal kept woman. Is that why you think he went up there?" She could feel his whole body reaching for her now, anticipating, and now a tiny bit unsure at the same time. A little more of the champagne fog lifted.

"No," he said thickly. "I don't think that at all. So you went to meet someone in Ploumanac'h, and not my brother."

"Yes. But not like you think."

"How, then?"

"It's my affair, Etienne. Just as Mirella is yours."

He shifted his flesh, as if the weight of his own body suddenly pressed on him. "Try the _bombe_. The oranges are from Spain. Cream and oranges are a delightful combination."

"If I ate like this every night, nothing would fit me, ever again."

He hovered over Kristina, a sly smile trembling on his lips. "You would be the Lillian Russell of France," he said softly. Seeing her puzzled face, he said, "She's an actress and singer in New York. We saw her on tour last year. Soft as a dove, with arms and a bosom like pillows. Women fainted over her, and men had to be pulled away from her dressing room door."

Curiosity flickered in Kristina. "Did Louvel find her beautiful, too?"

"No," he said in a strange, almost strangled tone. "No, he didn't. He said she looked like an overstuffed couch."

The sorbet and Spanish oranges had cooled her off inside, but a soft blanket still draped itself across her head. "You've treated me like a princess tonight, and I thank you."

"The hour is still young. I was hoping I could persuade you to dance."

_Mirella will claw my eyes out tomorrow as it is. I've never danced in a man's arms to an orchestra. I don't trust myself, though, I feel dangerously soft now, as if I could flow in any direction. _"If I want to keep in voice, I can't stay out too late."

Disappointment flashed for a moment over his face, but he quickly recovered himself. Kristina stood up, and the room wobbled slightly. He reached out for her arm, and she took it. Underneath the fine cloth his arm felt undefined, a little mushy.

On the street, the cold night wind pushed at them. "You'll need a scarf," he said, and wrapped his silk one around her throat, his hands lingering over her neck with a touch like vapor, but entirely attentive.

In the carriage he sat apart from her, silently looking out at the streaked blue and gold lights. "So tell me about him," he said in a serious, businesslike tone.

Kristina admired his new directness. "Tell me about Mirella, and why you were out with me tonight, instead of her."

"You missed your calling as a fencer."

"I thought I missed my calling as a dancer."

"Do you love him?"

"Do you love Mirella? Two years is a long time."

"Two years can feel like an eternity. So perhaps I am breaking promises tonight. What promises are you breaking?"

"No promises, because none have been made."

"At least, tell me who he is, what he does. I'd love to know what kind of man can keep such a rare and beautiful bird like you in a cage, without any kind of promise, who can keep her from dancing, who makes her dress in sober grey that would make a nun look flighty, and who draws her to look out the carriage window instead of at me."

"He doesn't make me dress any way, thank you. I choose my wardrobe as I please. And if you must ask, he's a stone mason. A builder." _So much more than that, but it will do for right now._

"What?" he half-said, half-sputtered. "With dust in his hair?"

"I haven't seen any dust."

"Louvel, you are such a fool, chasing after a stone cutter in a churchyard, making yourself sick over it," he said to himself, as if Kristina wasn't even there. Then to her, "You should turn heads everywhere you go. A mason's wages for a year wouldn't buy one of the dresses you should have. I can see you in silk and lace, swathed in fur."

"Well, I'm sorry I embarrassed you with my appearance. Anyway, I already have a fur." The soft glow of champagne was gone entirely, replaced by a thin thread of headache.

He knew he'd gone too far, and tried to take her hand, but she folded hers up in her lap. "I don't pretend to be a saint," Etienne said. "I'm a man of the world, a man of pleasure, and I've enjoyed the company of women about as long as you've been on this earth, and I've known a lot of them. Plain women cringe and skirt around the wall, and make themselves ugly. Beautiful women parade themselves, and flaunt, and every man serves as a spotlight fit only to illuminate them. You're something different, something rare, and you don't even know it. You're a beautiful woman almost entirely unaware of her own beauty."

_He rattles on as much as his brother. He's had more practice, so the words are sweeter._ "Haven't you spoiled it, then, by making me aware of it?"

The night was cold already, but the temperature dropped just a few degrees in the carriage as it turned onto Kristina's street. "Tender little pigeon," he said, "you think you know so much, but let me tell you, the world is a big place, and you have seen very little of it. Your mason is carving you; it will be interesting to see what finally emerges from the rock." Then he reached over with his hands to her neck, and she started back, alarmed.

"Relax, little dove," he said. "I'm just untying my scarf, unless you want it for a souvenir of your night out on the town." He slowly unwound it, brushing her cheek and hair with his soft cool hands, sliding it off her neck like a serpent of silk. "Take care of that voice." He picked up her hand to kiss it, and this time she let him. Instead of politely breathing on it, his lips slowly caressed the back, tickling her with his moustache.

Kristina let herself in as quietly as she could. Anneke was asleep, so she rooted through the stack of correspondence on the side table as quietly as she could. There was no letter from Alberich. So she lay on her bed in the silent flat, watching the ceiling spin around her in long lazy waves_. I have to face Mirella tomorrow, and all her friends. Renata is Mirella's friend, especially. That should prove interesting. I didn't do what I intended, either, which was to tell Etienne to call Louvel off. The evening all spun out of control so fast._

_Etienne said I was rare. I don't feel rare, or particularly beautiful. Mirella is so much lovelier than I. Her eyes are the most remarkable blue, not grey like so many supposedly blue eyes, but truly blue, like a clear sky, and long and almond-shaped, with those brushy black lashes. But even the bluest eyes can't keep some men from tiring of her, apparently._

_I'm like something in a shop that Etienne's found. He originally meant to take the present home to his little brother, but wants to keep it instead for himself, because it's pretty and it amuses him. I wonder if Mirella used to amuse him once, but doesn't now, even with her big eyes and fine shoulders. _

_Are you tired of me already, Alberich? That would explain no letter, and no clear mention of when you'd be back. I need some air, or I'm going to be sick. That's better, even if the cold goes right through this night dress. I never believed that nonsense about cold air being bad for the voice, or making a person ill. _

_It will be Christmas in a few days. Maybe I'll hear from you then._

_There's the streetlight where not so long ago you stood, the light behind you casting you into a deep silhouette. I wish you would come back from Rennes, but while I can easily face a thousand Mirellas, I'm not sure I can face you. Not right now, with the memory of aristocratic mouth over the back of my hand, and too many questions unanswered. _

Her thoughts went around as many times as the room, but eventually she slept.

* * * * * *

The next day, Camille Letourneau arrived late for the _Romeo et Juliette_ rehearsal, and was fined four francs. The company was silent as she reached inside her velvet purse and threw a five-franc coin across the room at M. Rossignol. "Keep the change," she snarled.

He coolly caught the coin mid-air and tossed it back at her. "Deductible from the next pay period," he snapped, and slammed his baton against the music stand. "Lateness will not be tolerated."

Camille plopped herself next to Kristina, fuming. "How many fines has Renata paid?" she steamed. "She's missed every _Romeo_ rehearsal."

Kristina put her arm around her, and Camille leaned her head momentarily against Kristina's shoulder. "Don't worry," Kristina said softly. "He picked you for the role of the nurse. That's better than prancing around the Capulet's dinner party in a brocaded gown."

"Yes, I do so well as a sixty-year old woman. I don't know why I bother sometimes," she said, muffled in the sleeve of Kristina's dress.

From across the room, Riali winked at both of them and made kissing motions with his mouth. Kristina ignored him.

Kristina and Camille sat like an island in the middle of a glacial sea. It seemed every woman's eyes in rehearsal were averted. During a break, Kristina said to Camille, "How many friends does Mirella have here? If looks were arrows, I'd be St. Sebastian."

"Watch your step, Svenska," she said quietly. "Renata and Mirella have been friends for years, and Mirella wants nothing more than to marry Etienne de Coucy. But it will never happen."

"Not now, especially." Kristina thought of Louvel all over her, with everything in his eyes but a proposal. Then, as if thinking of the devil could make him appear, the rehearsal hall door swung open, and there stood Louvel de Coucy.

"Camille," Kristina poked her, "Look over there. What's he doing here?"

Camille scrutinized him up and down with the same kind of thorough accuracy Kristina had seen Riali give a new chorus girl. "Hard to say. Big brother's a patron, right? That gives him the right to clutter up rehearsals. I thought you'd be glad to see him, anyway. He's smooth, young and smooth. I like that."

Kristina made a face and shoved Camille off her shoulder.

Louvel chatted with Lorello and a few of the chorus men, and as much as Kristina tried to avoid his glance, he finally caught her eye. She sighed a little in exasperation, and said to Camille, "I can't duck him forever. Might as well introduce you."

"It would be my pleasure." Camille pushed a few of the curls at her forehead, and fixed Louvel with a coy glance. However, as Louvel made his way toward them, Rossignol snapped his baton sharply once again, and motioned to Louvel to sit down. Throughout the rest of rehearsal, Camille looked over at him time and again, and he squirmed a little, as if he felt her eyes on his skin.

Kristina watched the darting play of eyes across the rehearsal hall. Camille sat straight up now, trying to not look at him directly, and Kristina saw her through his. Through her own vision, Kristina saw lines around the mouth and hennaed hair, but when she imagined Camille through Louvel's eyes, there appeared a sensual woman with a trim-waisted buxom figure, curved hips, and soft red curls clustered around a wide-eyed, pert-chinned face.

Since Renata was gone, Kristina sang Juliette as well as her own part of the mischievous page Stephano. During her duet with Camille as the nurse, Camille implored her, caressed her, put her hands on Kristina's face, and always peeked over at Louvel, who was now red-faced and sweating.

"Excellent," Rossignol commented. "Tear out their hearts with passion," and Camille gave Kristina a wicked grin.

When rehearsal ended, Louvel was nowhere to be seen, and Camille's face crimped in disappointment.

"I know where he'll be," Kristina said, trying to reassure her. "He likes to haunt my dressing room. Come down there with me and you'll get formally introduced." She took Camille's arm and they left quickly, ignoring the stares and whispers of the other women.

"There's no rush. Let him wait," Camille said, pulling Kristina's arm back so that they walked slowly through the halls. "Is your dressing room far away enough? I know why he came this afternoon, it's obvious."

"As I explained to his brother last night, Louvel's not in love with me, not really. He's stage-struck, there's a difference. I don't think he even really likes me. If he's not criticizing me, we don't have anything to talk about."

"Who said anything about talking?" Camille responded with a crooked smile. "But I'm not going to cut you out if he's what you want."

"He's all yours, believe me. Sshhh, look, there he is."

"Invite him in," she whispered.

"What?"

"Trust me."

"You're not serious?"

Camille, Louvel, and Kristina stood awkwardly in the main part of the dressing room, crowded together a little too closely for Kristina's taste. Kristina took Louvel's top hat and set it carefully on the bureau dresser. They made introductions, and then Camille looked significantly at the curtain that separated the main room from the boudoir. After the second or third glance Kristina understood. "Louvel," she said sweetly, "Please excuse us ladies for a few moments. As you can see, there is no maid here, and I need Camille's help with something. Here, have some pastilles while we're gone."

When we slid behind the brocade curtain Kristina whispered to Camille, "What's going on?"

"We're going to stoke the flames a little bit," Camille whispered back. "Here, take your hair down a few locks here and there, and muss it up." She went over to the closet and rustled the dressing gown. "Oh, this petticoat, it won't go up," she said a little too loudly. Then she leaned over to Kristina, whispering once again, "Tell me to unlace your corset."

"Camille," Kristina called out in a stage voice, "could you undo my corset a little? It's dreadfully tight," and she had to pinch herself to keep from giggling. Camille poked her in the ribs, and then she did giggle. Camille rustled some silk again and mussed her own hair.

"Here, let me do up your hair again," Camille said, facing the bedroom curtain so to project her voice outward. As she came close to Kristina's neck she inhaled briefly for a moment, and Kristina could feel her desire like an unformed cloud which covered herself, Louvel, anything in Camille's path. "You're not shocked?" Camille asked her very quietly, and then louder, for Louvel's benefit, "Oh, naughty girl, don't pinch me like that."

"You deserved it," Kristina projected. Then quieter, "No, I'm not shocked. I went to convent school, but I didn't grow up in one."

"You'd be surprised what goes on in convents." Then Camille kissed Kristina lightly on the side of the mouth, just a touch of lips on skin, and said under her breath, "Thank you. Now it's time to make our grand appearance," and disheveled and almost _deshabille_, the two women went back into the sitting room.

Louvel rose to his feet and Camille looked him over caressingly, possessively. He stammered and went red again as everyone sat down. Now Kristina saw Louvel through Camille's eyes this time, and he was indeed smooth, like a silky lap-dog ready for stroking, with his blondish trimmed moustache and round limbs, his mouth half-open and a bit wet.

"I'd ask Svenska to make tea," Camille said, "but that would be presumptuous, as it isn't my dressing room. However, I would like some. Rehearsing makes one so thirsty," and she dusted him over lightly with her eyes once again.

"We'll go to Bretano's," he said at once. "My carriage is outside. Christine, will you come too?"

"Louvel, nothing would please me more. But Anneke needs me this afternoon to help Amelie beat rugs. You must invite me some other time." Camille gave Kristina the same seductive glance she'd given Louvel. He watched her face intently, and then looked over at Kristina, expectant. She didn't have to cast her eyes indiscreetly downward to know that he was roused. "Oh, I'm sure Camille will be as good company to you as she is to me," and Camille looked satisfied.

"Would you wait for me in the hall? I'll just be a moment," Camille said to Louvel playfully.

"Of course," he stammered, and stumbled to his feet.

When the door closed behind him, Camille whirled toward Kristina and clutched her stomach, grinning. "Did you see him?" she gasped, fighting back whoops of laughter. "He could barely walk. And he forgot his hat."

"How did you know?" Kristina asked. "I mean, what to say in that little bit of play-acting."

"Sweetheart, right now I'm just improvising. We'll see if I'm right," and with that, Camille picked up Louvel's silk top hat and her own wrap, and whirled out the door.

(_Continued_ …)


	16. The Julbock

**The Julbock**

The next day, the day before Christmas Eve, Kristina stood in the kitchen with flour up to the elbows, mixing up dough for gingersnap hearts. Amelie came in with the mail and said, "Looks like you have a note from another admirer."

Punching the sticky dough down, Kristina answered, "I can't open it now. Just read it to me, if you don't mind. It's probably someone from the opera who got my address."

"Dear Kristina," Amelie started.

Kristina jumped, spraying flour over the kitchen counter. "Oh, give me that!"

Amelie dodged her and moved to the other end of the kitchen, and began to read. "My return to Paris was delayed by the former tenants of my father Alphonse's house. They left me with a hole in the shed roof and a collapsed fence. As it was impossible to find workmen this close to Christmas …"

Amelie laughed as Kristina snatched the letter from her hands, smearing cookie dough all over the creamy paper in the process. Kristina read the rest to herself, while Amelie looked on, chuckling.

_"… I am obliged to finish the work myself. I will be back shortly after Christmas and will call for you then. I have something for you that I think you will like. _

_Until then,_

_Alberich Niemann._"

The envelope was postmarked from Rennes, but there was no return address.

Amelie said, "You looked like death warmed over this morning, after your rendezvous with the Comte last night. Glad to see you've recovered."

"You'll be even gladder to know I came back with my virtue intact." _Most of it, anyway._

"Don't joke about that," Amelie said, smile suddenly gone. She rolled out dough out to cut it, and hacked at it a little too vigorously with the long knife. "You might not get away so easily the next time."

Kristina rolled her eyes in irritation, and then slipped the letter into her pocket to read again in the secrecy of her room, away from Amelie's eagle eyes. How does a person hold a letter? Right, like this, with the thumbs on either side. His hands had been on it, and his mouth, too. Her heart started to pound.

Then the conversation with Dr. Bergamos came back and chilled her all over again. That doctor hadn't told her anything she hadn't already thought about. It was that he brought it out into the open, when everyone else fights to keep it in the shadows. Just as he had mentioned the girls who asked him to play the "angel maker." _It's almost as if people have more fear talking about the thing, rather than the thing itself. But Alberich is coming back around Christmas, if I'm lucky, and has something for me. I don't have anything for him.___

"Amelie," Kristina called into the kitchen, "I'm going out shopping. Would you please finish the cookies?"

Without waiting to hear the answer, she headed out into the street and toward the shops. She wanted something different, but not too sentimental. He was probably like Pappa and Dr. Sibelius, men didn't like sentimental gifts. The _grand magasins_ were full of umbrellas and cravats and all the unnecessary paraphernalia that people snap up before Christmas. Nothing seemed right, and she turned away from their elaborate storefronts to a little shop on a side street off the boulevard, tucked in between a tobacconist's and a hatter's.

A chipped sign on a worn, faded blue door said, "Open." The windows had curtains drawn over them, and through them you could barely see a hodge-podge of knick-knacks - candles, drapes, small pictures, jewelry on pedestals. Slowly she opened the door, and a little silvery bell tinkled.

The shop was dusty and dim inside, with a whole host of smells that swirled up into the air. Cinnamon and other strange hot spices competed with incense and a strong odor of roses. Underneath was the faint cooking smell of some kind of curry. A heavy, slope-shouldered man with thick black moustaches smiled from behind the counter. In the dim kitchen space behind him, a squat black-clad woman with her head entirely covered stirred something in a pot.

The dark-moustached man bowed his head slightly as Kristina said, "Good day. May I look around? I've never seen anything like this."

He nodded and said, "What does Mademoiselle desire?"

"Something special."

"For a woman or a man?"

The dark shape of his wife moved slowly in the back of the store, and his stolid face carefully trained on Kristina's eyes alone, and no other part_. If he were French by birth, his wife would be behind the counter, and he'd probably be out playing cards somewhere. Instead, she hides in the back, and he faces the world. How does he stand Paris, where everything is on display? What would he think of where I was the other night? _

She flushed and said, "For a man."

He came out from behind the counter, barely squeezing through the narrow space. Around his big stomach he wore a red cummerbund, and he smelled of strong tobacco. "He is a man who likes music?"

Her heart beat a little faster. "Yes, he does. What do you have in mind?"

He took a long, thin recorder from a case and held it up. It looked like rosewood, buffed to a soft glow. "From Morocco."

"He might like this. He lived in Algeria, so something from Northern Africa might do well. He was a builder there, he and his father."

The shopkeeper started forth in surprise. "Is he a tall man with a scarred face, as if lace were burned into his skin?"

"You know him?"

"He comes by to talk sometimes. I offer him good strong tobacco in the water pipe, but he won't have any of it. He shares coffee with me, though, and I keep his Arabic up to date. Sometimes we play chess. I would have recommended a set, but he bought one from me last year. So that is your friend, for whom you buy a gift."

Flustered, she said, "This flute is beautiful, but I'd like to look around some more. What else would you suggest?"

The case next to the path to the kitchen contained all kinds of knives, long and short. The shopkeeper took out a short steel dagger in a leather scabbard and pulled the blade out slowly. The steel gleamed dully, and the blade looked very sharp. In the hand it had a surprising weight, and it swished as she pulled it in and out of the scabbard.

"Do you think this suits him?" she asked hesitantly. "I hate to think he would find himself in need of it."

"The man who carries a dagger rarely has to use it. He knows it's there in his pocket or boot, and other men leave him be."

"It seems very daring. Perhaps we should continue."

"I think I have what you want," he said, and from a shelf he took a red leather-bound book, with thick ivory paper that slightly resisted the touch. The cover was tooled with elaborate flowers, and inlaid with pieces of leather in different colors_. He would like this paper. Look at the kind he used for a simple note. It has weight and substance. What you wrote on here would stay for fifty years. Anyway, he said that he writes. It would also be a great surprise; I don't think he'd expect me to get him something like this. _

"It's perfect," she said, and the big dark man smiled again.

"He should write poems for you, no?"

Kristina blushed. Then his wife came to the counter to stand behind him, as if half-hiding behind his solid mass. Only her two enormous, black eyes lined with paint shone out from under her veil. Her sharp nose pushed out the soft embroidered cloth forward, and Kristina saw with her mind's eye the two of them in a room with light filtered through a rose-red lattice. The woman's husband took off the sheer gauze, kissed her mouth with his thick black moustache, and read aloud to her from a fine piece of paper covered with the squiggly language of the Arabs.

He showed his wife the book and said something in his own tongue. She nodded, and her eyes smiled. Carefully he wrapped the book in gold tissue, and said, "Tell him Timurhan wants his revenge for his last defeat." His wife laughed and went back into the kitchen.

"It's a great coincidence," Kristina said, paying.

"There are no coincidences. Go with _Allah_," and the shopkeeper said, and he bowed again as the silver bell of the door fluttered softly.

* * *

Christmas Eve was warmer than usual, and there was no sleet or sludge on the clear streets. "There's a _Julbrot_ over at the embassy," Anneke said to Kristina as they cleared up the tea things. "You know you're invited."

Pappa had never wanted to go to the embassy Christmas Eve festivities, because afterwards all the partygoers walked over to the Church of Sweden for midnight services. Besides, it interfered with the Christmas Eve fast. So while Anneke and her husband had Christmas ham and stuffed sausage with the other Swedish expatriates in Paris, Pappa and Kristina sat home and broke their fast with potato-leek soup. Pappa's fasts were strict and he wouldn't eat even fish on Good Friday or Christmas Eve. But that was all in the past now. "Of course I'll go," Kristina said, and Anneke smiled.

One of the larger reception rooms at the embassy had been turned into a bower of green, with pine boughs and red-beaded holly hung everywhere. A great Advent wreath covered one table, its purple candles replaced with white, and pine cones were strewn all around it. In a corner some children painted white edges on pine cones, to make it look like they were covered with snow. If heaven had a smell, it had to be that of cloves, cinnamon, cider, and Christmas ham boiling in the kitchen in its iron pot.

Anneke's friends greeted and kissed Kristina, exclaiming how they remembered her from her first and only Paris _Julbrot_ at the embassy, when she was a girl still in braids and newly arrived. The older ladies fussed and asked one question after another, "So you're a singer at the Eclectic Theater now." "You'll have to sing something for us tonight." "Hasn't she grown into a beauty?" "I know, that's what I tell my granddaughter – you're a little ball of grey fluff right now, but just wait and you'll become a swan." "Is there someone special for you?" and that last question made Kristina blush and turn away.

The reception hall had a small dance floor, and a fiddler tuned up. The accordion player made his box squawk experimentally and jabbed the schawm player in a shared musical joke. A minister said a blessing, and even when Kristina crossed herself, no one turned their head. "That's Pastor Ambrosius, the embassy chaplain," Anneke whispered after the prayer. "His wife died last year, and everyone's looking for a new one for him."

"It's a smaller crowd than I thought."

"Even a few years after the war, travel was still hard, and the ships were slower. Now it's easier to get back home, especially if you're going to Gothenburg, or want to visit Oslo. So it's more of us older ones." She sighed and squeezed Kristina's hand. "I'm so glad you came."

A cheer went up as two stewards brought a large steaming iron pot of ham broth out to one of the tables, along with trays of bread. Each person took a piece, dipped it into the pot, and ate it. The children mostly dropped theirs, and by the end, the broth in the pot looked more like bread stew, with all the pieces floating in it.

The fiddlers began to play, the gaslights dimmed a little, and Kristina sat leaning sleepily against the wooden paneling, quiet as a tick full of blood after a busy day with the dogs in the forest. Several men invited her to dance, but she waved them off, too stuffed with ham, potato sausage, cabbage rolls, and well-being to move. Alberich's coming back to Paris soon, she mused drowsily. _He'll "call for me" - does that mean he'll come to the apartment? It makes me so happy I can barely stand to think about it. I want Anneke to meet him, although I'm not so sure about Amelie._

A short, broad man with blondish graying hair bowed before her and held out his arm. "A polka, Froken Sigurdsdotter?"

"Pastor Ambrosius," she answered, debating.

"I've just come out of mourning," he said simply. "You would do me a great courtesy to share my first dance."

His manner was kind and direct, so she rose to take his arm. "I would be honored. Please accept my sympathies."

The accordion brayed as he swirled her around with a firm but gentle step. Out of the corner of her eye, across the rotating room, she noticed an odd figure moving among the children, passing out what looked like candies or raisins, wagging head in its straw goat mask at them. It was the _Julbock_, the Christmas goat, and she hadn't seen one since she was very little.

When they came to rest, the pastor looked at her with a gleam in his eye that was a little bit too bright. He was pink-cheeked and panting. She thanked him quickly and before he could ask for another dance or offer a cup of _glogg_, she headed off toward a cluster of motherly women with Anneke at the center.

On the way Kristina passed the _Julbock,_ whose head slowly swiveled around to look at her as she passed. His horns were made of great curls of straw, and long red ribbons draped down from his headdress. The older children ignored him, but the little ones ran up to touch his shaggy fur cape. He filled one little hand after another with sweets, and then disappeared into the crowd.

Kristina reached Anneke at the center of her cluster of ladies, who were chatting about Japan and all the new things in the shops from that country. "My girl," Anneke said, "would you be so kind as to go to the cloakroom, reach into my coat pocket, and get my handkerchiefs? I want to show Fru Guttingen the Japanese embroidery - it's so fine, it looks painted on."

The fiddlers played something sweet and almost melancholy now, and across the room the good pastor forded his way through the crowd towards her, no doubt hoping to dance cheek-to-cheek. Thank you, Anneke, for the diversion, Kristina thought. The _Julbock_ stood close by, interested in some little children cutting out their silver paper stars. Kristina's head was spinning, even though she hadn't had anything to drink except cider. All that champagne with Etienne the night before had left her queasy in the morning, a sensation which she didn't wish to repeat. But the warm glowing room seemed like some strange dream, and she was so sleepy. It must have been the fiddles, and all the candles. Sighing, she went to look for Anneke's handkerchiefs.

The cloakroom was almost dark, and the attendant gone. Kristina felt about for the knob to turn up the gaslight, but couldn't find it. Practically every old lady there had a black wool coat trimmed with velvet, finding Anneke's meant a tedious search through the rack.

The smell of goat hit her from behind, rich and tangy. There had been goats on the old farm of her childhood, and their odor had gone through everything - their hair, the milk, the cheese. Still half-dreaming she inhaled deeply, and it was like breathing in the farm all over again. Then there came a rustle, and she turned slowly around into a breaking wave of penetrating odor and heat.

The _Julbock_ blocked the cloakroom door, huge and hulking. His straw mask covered his face and his hairy cape stank of goat. Her voice cracked with nervousness as she said, "You must have given away all your candy. Are you looking for your coat, too?"

He threw his cape back and planted his arms on his hips, hands covered with thick dark hair. He wore close-fitting red breeches, almost like tights, and Kristina turned her hot face away quickly, because his stiff and noticeable excitement pushed out the breechcloth in front. She backed away from him slowly, almost crouching into the corner. Tall he was, and very wide. There was no way to slip around him.

"I'll come back later," Kristina said. "I really don't need to get this coat now."

He moved a bit closer, wedging her into the corner. He put his arm up on the coat rack and his goat-nosed mask almost touched her face. The heat poured off of his body like an odor, and his cape was made of goatskin, a dark brown one with long wiry hair. As frightened as she was, she wanted to touch it, and against her will she grew warm and loose in the legs.

"Please," she whispered. "Let me leave now."

"Not yet," he said in a scratchy voice, muffled by the straw mask. "There's a message. From them. Well, not from them, not from her at least. Any message she would send, you wouldn't want. It's from him."

Was he drunk? "I don't know what you're talking about. Someone has a message for me?"

"I'm not supposed to touch you. He said not to. If I did, he said he'd strap me to an iceberg for a year and a day. On the bottom." The goat-man moved a little closer and reached up to stroke her hair. "Might be worth it, though." He turned his hooded head one way, then the next, as if trying to get a better look. The red ribbons on his head twisted like snakes. He pulled the pins out of Kristina's hair and it fell down in a cascade, which he ran through his fingers. "Just like Sif's. Like spun gold. And no Thor here to hammer me."

His heat and smell inflamed her with fear and excitement at the same time, and in a rough voice she said, "Did Thor unhitch you from his chariot just now? I'd think he'd want to keep you locked up."

He half-laughed, half-bleated, and pushed his body up next to hers. _Oh, God, it's touching me. I can feel it through my skirt. I'm going to yell, someone's got to hear and come help me._

Then something mad came over her, even wilder than what she had felt when Etienne kissed and stroked the palm of her hand. An insanity of desire passed through her from crown to heel, something she had felt only in dreams. That mad feeling whispered, No one will come in here. All he has to do is release that fierce pulsing swelling from his britches. Just lift your skirts right now, and open right up for it. He's so big, look at those arms, he could hold you up for an hour. You wouldn't even have to lie down.

Alberich's face came before her, the last time she had seen him in the dead of that cold Brittany night with a kiss hanging ripe on his mouth, and Kristina shook her head. No. Whatever madness this was, no.

The _Julbock_ pushed the mask very close to her face and from under the straw he sniffed a long, noisy sniff around her head and neck, almost down to the bosom. "A virgin. I can smell it. He told me she would be. Damn."

Kristina pushed at the straw head even as he backed away. The mask didn't come off; in fact, it didn't even move. The creature said hoarsely, "You're not the only girl in the world, missy. There's got to be one or two around here that'll drop their drawers for me, if I can't have you. So here's your message. He says to tell you that he's clean."

"What?" Kristina said, head and limbs still buzzing. "Who are you talking about? Who's 'clean?' "

"The one you're thinking of. He's clean. That's what you're worried about, isn't it? You can kiss him, hell, you can hike your skirts for him if you like." He leaned over and sniffed her again, then muttered, "The lucky bastard."

"Who told you to tell me this?"

"He did. My master. Now I've told you. Done my job, I have," and he headed for the cloakroom door.

"Wait! What does it mean?"

"How do I know?" he said as he crouched out, ducking to avoid the doorframe.

He's taken the hairpins, she thought as she fumbled with her hair. _You've got to find Anneke's coat. You should chase him out and call for help._ Then she laughed, still caught up in the madness of a few moments ago_. He won't be found in the corridor. I doubt if he'll be found anywhere around here at all._ Kristina reached out to the coat rack for support, and there was the coat she was looking for, with its silver and jet bird pin on the lapel. It had been here all along. She had had her hand on it the whole time. Trembling, she reached in the pocket and got out three silk handkerchiefs.

Anneke was spooning rice porridge into bowls. She took the handkerchiefs and slid them into her apron pocket, saying, "What kept you? We gave up on you there."

"Almost everyone has a black coat like yours," Kristina mumbled.

"Child, what's wrong? Look at your face, it's red as a beet. And your hair's all come down."

"In a minute, Anneke. There's something I have to do."

She went over to the table where the children had cut out their stars. A little boy of six or so in a green velvet suit sat pasting yellow candle flame cutouts onto thick white candles. In front of him was a little pile of red and yellow and blue candies. "Those are nice sweets," she said.

"Thank you, Froken," he said, and kept pasting.

"Look at that lovely one over there, bright as a jewel. Is it yours?"

He put his hand possessively over the candy, and then recovered his manners. "Would you like one?" he asked. "As a Christmas present?"

"You are so courteous. I'm sure the Christ Child himself would smile in his cradle to hear you. Yes, I would like one. Where did you get them?"

"From the goat man," he said, and handed her a red candy cut into a square like a ruby.

She bit into it, and a sharp tangy jelly flooded her mouth, like currant jam or lingonberries. Not so long ago she'd told a Breton farmwife that one could taste the summer in her cheese. That only hinted at summer. But this was like every taste of summer in the mouth all at once, every taste of home. Every berry she ever picked, every glass of currant wine she had ever sipped, rolled around her tongue. Long ago Kristina had used to stare at twinflowers with their two blossoms growing up from one stem, and she would imagine a fairy king and queen with each bloom on their head for a crown. Now the two seemed to dance inside her, swirling about in their flower crowns, as real as the taste of berry in her mouth.

"Thank you," Kristina said, dazed. "Here's something for you," and she gave him a shiny bronze centime. "_God Jul_." He put it in his pocket, but his look was dubious, as if a coin wasn't a fair trade for that glowing red drop of sweetness.

She drifted back to Anneke, who handed her a little bowl of rice porridge. It was thick and sweet, and she spooned it in absently.

"What happened to your hairpins?" Anneke asked.

"They're gone now," she said evasively, and then felt something hard in her mouth. She turned quickly away from Anneke and slipped it out of her mouth, sucking off the sticky porridge, and slid it into her jacket pocket to hide it. _You know what this means. The almond. I got the almond._ Then a delight opened up in her almost as intense as the desire from earlier in the cloakroom. "Anneke, look," Kristina said as she showed her the little brown nut. "Do I have to tell anyone?"

"It's customary, but no, I guess not."

"I just don't want everyone to make a fuss. I don't want everyone's eyes on me."

"You sing in front of a thousand people, and you don't want eyes on you? Girl, what's got into you tonight? At least eat the almond, don't keep it as a souvenir. I guess you'll have to start doing some stitching on your household linens, if you're going to be married within the year."

Kristina bit into the almond, and it was like biting into Alberich himself, with his sharp odor of shaving soap, his faint smell of the stable, the alkaline tang of the sea. The almond crunched with a dim trace of salt. Would his mouth be briny too? She never wanted anything so much as for him to come back to Paris.

"Come on," Anneke said. "Snap out of it. We're going over to church soon, and we have to do something about that wild hair. Look, here's a red ribbon left on the table here, with the paper scraps. I'm sure we can borrow it."

Kristina fingered the ribbon absently. It smelled strongly of goat.

In the powder room Anneke combed and braided her hair as if she were a little girl. "It's so nice they had a _Julbock_," Kristina commented dreamily.

Anneke gave a quizzical look. "There wasn't one, tonight. The man playing him was supposed to come, but he took ill and had to call it off. Kristina, are you all right?"

That's just what she didn't want to hear, although it came as no surprise. Anneke wound the red ribbon through Kristina's long braid and tied it off on the end.

That night, for the first time since her Pappa died, Kristina didn't go to Mass alone. Instead, she and Anneke sat crammed into a pew in the small, light-wooded Church of Sweden. Two older girls dressed in St. Lucia costumes lit the candles on the big pine in church. When the small choir broke into _Stilla natt, heliga natt_, she cried like a child, and the lady on the other side of her passed over her handkerchief. The starch scratched her nose. After the service, Kristina went up to look at the nativity scene afterwards, and she swore the Baby Jesus in his wooden cradle had winked at her.

Then Anneke and Kristina put on coats and hats, gathered up the big straw hamper full of the food Amelie had made, some thick loaves of honey bread, a ham and potato pie, and most of the cookies. Anneke and Kristina gave some of the food to the deacons to distribute, then took the rest to the homes of three different Swedish families, where Kristina appreciated Anneke's advice to not lace her corset too tight.

The snow-pearled dawn was just glinting over the Parisian rooftops when they finally said their last Yule greetings. "I'm not that old-fashioned," Anneke remarked as they turned towards home rather than the Swedish Church, where the Christmas Day service was about to begin. "I'm an old woman and need my sleep."

You're losing your mind, was her last thought as she pulled up the quilt against the morning light, but at that point she didn't really care. In dream she saw the goat-man again. This time there was no dress in between them, or shaggy cape either, and his chest and barrel belly were covered with thick wiry hair. Her hands ran up around his shoulders laced with the same coarse pelt. She felt rather than saw that fierce and frightening swelling, as over it she slid like a glove. Then one shudder after another shook her awake, and each pierced her with an arrow of sweetness until the last one faded.

Still half-dreaming, Kristina got up and rinsed her face in the washbowl. The high-risen sun said it was late in the morning, maybe even noon. A glow went through her, flowering out from the belly's very cellar, from the spot which every month flared with pain. Oh, it ached, but it was a delicious ache that lingered through bottom and legs as she unwound the red braid ribbon out of bed-frowsy, musty hair. But the ribbon wasn't red any longer. Instead, it had faded to a pale rose pink. And the powerful goat smell was gone.

Pondering, she let the ribbon idly fall onto the vanity when Anneke called. There was a late breakfast spread out on Anneke's most festive tablecloth, the one with ladies in long embroidered skirts dancing around the edges. Kristina looked at with herring, dark bread with sweet white winter butter, currant jam, and coffee with no desire whatever. "Anneke, I can't. Not after last night."

"Will you come with me to the Guttingens today, at least?" Anneke asked.

"I think I'll go back to bed. I have rehearsal tomorrow, first for that Saint-Saens oratorio which I barely know. Then I perform almost every night the rest of the week. The season's getting into full swing, and I just want to rest."

"Very well, you can come later, you know. The door will be open all through the evening."

Kristina's arms and legs suddenly felt heavy and languorous. "Look," she murmured, "I can barely focus my eyes." She crept back into bed and pulled the covers up as high as they'd go, drifting away even with eyes open.

It's funny, she thought, my arms and legs are asleep, but not my head. Then currents of warmth played over her up and down, like hands tucking her in under the comforter, and as they tucked, they lingered, patting and soothing, but stirring too, until at last she faded to the grey of sleep.

The doorbell rang, and then rang again, insistently. She grumbled to herself, Anneke must have forgotten her key. Who else would ring on Christmas Day?

Kristina stumbled to the kitchen and there was the brass key, sitting right on the table, along with the untouched spread of Christmas Day breakfast. She stared at the key for a moment, a little resentful that Anneke always complained when Kristina would knock on the door after a late rehearsal, having left her own key on her bureau.

Maybe I'll give her a little lip about it, she resolved, but only a little, because usually I'm the guilty one. What time is it anyway? Mid-afternoon, certainly, and the mantel clock agreed. I don't believe it, I've slept half the day away.

The doorbell rang again. "I'm coming," Kristina called out. "I have your key here. Try to remember it next time."

She pulled on the brass handle, and the key slipped from her hand, to clink to the floor. There stood Alberich Niemann with a package in hand, and there Kristina stood, her air flying out of a fuzzy braid. At least Anneke's gift of a deep maroon Chinese silk wrapper covered up her patched, old flannel nightgown.

"I don't remember you ever giving me a key," Alberich said with a warm smile. "Merry Christmas."

"Oh, my God. I didn't expect you. That is, I meant, I expected you later. But here you are."

His face fell. "I've come at a bad time."

"Oh, no, please come in." Then it all rushed out, "I've missed you so much. I'm so glad you're here. But you have to excuse me, I look terrible."

He set his package down on the sideboard, and said, "You don't look terrible. Your hair looks like a halo, and your face is glowing."

She flushed with pleasure at the compliments. "There's still breakfast if you want it, and I can make tea. Anneke's at a Christmas _kalas_, but I decided to sleep this morning instead."

"_Kalas_?"

"A party. A Christmas party."

She served him tea, and bread, and some herring, and then said, "Can you excuse me? I would really like to wash my face and put on a dress."

"Don't touch the hair. You really don't know how beautiful it looks, do you?"

Her face felt like fire. "Would you like a book to look at?"

"I'd like a Swedish one, if it's convenient."

"Can you read Swedish?" she asked, astonished.

"No, but that's how I'll learn. It doesn't take me long to decipher languages at all."

She gave him one of her old school primers from Uppsala, and then rushed into her room. It was early afternoon, and the slanting orange light lit her up from behind as she looked in the vanity glass, thinking, It's like a halo, alright, all around me, and what are these two red spots on my cheeks, like cherry stains? She pinned up the fuzzy braid wrapped around with the faded rose ribbon, then threw on an old dress. The water was cold in the china pitcher, and it cooled the fire on her face, just as a little mint and baking soda cooled her mouth.

"It's a lot like English," he remarked when she came back. "If you start speaking it to me, I'll learn it."

"You know English?"

"A bit."

"Why do you want to learn Swedish? No one in Paris cares anything for Swedish."

"Because it's yours. Because it's something that you know."

"Let's go back into the parlor," she said. "Show me what you brought." She sounded like a greedy child, but didn't care. "And look, I have something for you, too."

"I know this paper. You went to Timurhan's shop."

"I did, and he said to tell you that he wants his revenge for his last defeat. He said something else, too, but I won't tell you what it was until you open it."

He pulled the paper apart delicately and turned the book over in his hands, feeling the paper, rubbing the tooled leather on the cover with his finger. "Thank you," he said. "It's beautiful."

"Timurhan said you could use it to write poems for me. I think he might have written some for his wife once. She looked wise when he said it, but it was hard to tell with that face covering."

"I've never written any, but I could try." He then handed Kristina a large, long package wrapped in red tissue.

She pulled it apart carefully, and there was a portfolio full of sheet music. In wonder she turned over the freshly copied leaves. "Oh, I don't believe it. It's Pappa's cantata. You finished it."

"All five parts, just as we said. Soprano, baritone, piano, cello, and violin."

"This means so much to me. You can't know. If he could have seen this, if he could hear it, maybe it could have brought him back, if only a little. Once in awhile he did come back, you know. Look at this violin line - you've taken his basic theme, and just made it sing. Oh, thank you," and before she knew it, the music sat again on the sideboard, and she was in his arms.

Strong surrounding ropes of muscle hauled her up to his chest. If she looked at him, she thought, she would burn up, just like one of those girls loved by Zeus, and so she rested her face on his chest. His shirt had been so well-worn from washing that it slid under her cheek like silk.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, thinking, I was wrong - heaven doesn't smell like a Christmas ham - it smells like him, soapy and a little sharp. This is where my face belongs. It's never belonged anyplace else, and her arms went up around his shoulders. _Oh, his back's like a brick wall that the sun's shone on all day, flooded with heat, and he's shaking underneath his skin. _

He stroked her braid while she rested against his chest, and deep down and far away thudded the swift but steady drumbeat of his heart. He played with her braid, tugging it a little back and forth, twisting his finger in the ribbon. Then her head went back very tenderly under his guiding hand, and his other hand went under her chin, lifting her face up to him.

"Beautiful Kristina," he whispered.

"Beautiful Alberich."

Then the hand that cupped her chin covered her face, and that tough palm she'd come to know so well from that day by the sea met her cheek and caressed it softly. The other hot hand went around her waist and pulled her in to him. Her loose breasts cushioned themselves between them, and then she dared to look up, but only at his chin and mouth. There, hanging like a persimmon on his softly-opened lips was her kiss, and it must have been ripe, because into her mouth it fell.

He kept his own mouth tender and loose, inviting her in. Taste, he seemed to say, and tasting she went, licking the fruit that was his mouth, pulling its flesh into her own, biting him gently and feeling the soft flesh move and slide under her teeth. He tasted like that almond she'd bitten into last night, a little salty, a little bitter, but good, so good. Her tongue grazed his teeth.

She ran her tongue on his teeth like a cat's tongue, and he licked her lips back, just like a cat himself, and the darkness behind his lips swelled as she ran her own catlike tongue over his own, again and again.

Their mouths danced together, back and forth, first his soft flesh between her teeth, then hers between his, and deep inside Kristina's body something opened up, not exactly the mad desire of the night before. It was like it although more tender, and the dark behind her lids got redder and darker still. All through that long kiss he never pushed, never invaded, but just opened his mouth wider and softer, drawing her in as fast as she wanted to go, pulling her along gently with lips that stroked in wider and wider circles.

There was his tongue at the portal of her mouth, begging to be let in, and so she pulled him into her. He gave a great shudder, and the long warm length of his tongue slid into her mouth like the flesh of a fruit when squeezed free from the rind. She sucked its soft roughness and he returned it, and when her back went all loose, he held her up entirely with his arms. Up against her leg she felt what men have in common with the _Julbock_, but she didn't pull away in fear this time, because he didn't push or prod.

His tongue rested in her mouth, and he let her do with it what she may, and so she explored with her own its roughness and ridges, tasted its slipperiness. There's a world in here, his tongue seemed to say, let me find it and explore it, and she slumped under his exploration.

He caressed her waist, and she panicked a little. _It's too much, too fast. It's not that I don't want to feel him. It's that he's like fire, and I don't want to burn. Because another few minutes of that, I would burn, like a torch, and everything would come down with it. _Reluctantly Kristina let his tongue go, and he slipped slowly out of her mouth, then pressed her tenderly with his lips.

She opened her eyes to his face glowing like flame, the scarred top half red as fire. His hair stood up wildly on his head where she'd winnowed her fingers through it. He cupped her face gently in both his hands, anticipating another kiss, but she pulled away from him.

He softly mouthed her forehead and they stood almost confused, wondering what to do now. As his ardor cooled, the redness in his face went down. The room came back to Kristina, with its crumpled Christmas paper on the sideboard and the smell of the bayberry candle burning in front of her father's image on the mantelpiece.

"I need to sit," she said, breathless.

Together they sat on the settee, and he held her hand tightly, not wanting to break off contact, wanting to keep each other close.

"You came back early."

He collected his breath enough to talk. "The day I mailed your letter, I found a young man who wanted to buy a scarf for his girl, and I talked him into working for me. We got it done, and I caught the train the next night."

"So lucky for me." He put his arm around her, keeping up the warm connection. "I want to sing 'Lazarus' with you as soon as we can. But the day after tomorrow we perform an opera by Saint-Saens called _Samson et Dalila_. But it isn't an opera, exactly. The managers want to present it as an oratorio. Confusing, I know. You'll have to come and listen; there won't be many people there. Lucky for me, La Renata is in Italy over the holiday, so I'm singing Dalila. It worries me a bit, as it's all new. And funny, it's a mezzo role, but thanks to you," and she gave his hand an affectionate squeeze, "I can manage it quite well, as far as the voice goes."

"You're taking care of your voice?"

That touched her. "I'm resting a lot. Too much, actually, as I feel sluggish and lazy."

"Why not put on your boots, and let's walk."

The concierge was polishing the wooden banisters as they came down the stairs, and Kristina wrinkled her nose at the strong smell of banana oil. The woman looked up sharply and nodded to Alberich, then to Kristina as an afterthought, and resumed polishing.

"You've met?" she said to him on the street.

"On the way in. She almost didn't want to let me in; told me that your 'Mama' wasn't at home and that I should come back later. I reassured her that I was just dropping off a Christmas present, and she let me pass. Perhaps I should have thrown her a honey cake," and Alberich chuckled.

"She's not that bad; at least she doesn't have three heads. She's used to renting to theater people, and knows we come and go at all hours, but for some reason she's protective of me."

They headed northeast on Rue Feydeau and he welcomed her under his arm. "Cold?"

"Not at all. Tell me about Rennes, and what you did there."

He looked away and his body withdrew in a little kind of shiver, but not the kind she'd felt earlier on his broad back during their kiss.

"My house … that is, my parents' house was rented out to some tenants. I paid a caretaker to supervise them, but that type of long-distance management doesn't work well. When I arrived, the tenants were gone, leaving only broken windows, an uprooted fence, two trees cut down …" His face looked stricken. "Alponse built that house stone by stone for my mother when they married," he went on, and Kristina winced a bit at his odd habit of calling his father by his Christian name. "I can't bring myself to sell it, and I don't want to live in it."

They turned a corner to find a tiny park, set between two long rows of light granite apartments slanted with patterns of light sifted through the bare trees. Beside some weathered statues they settled down on an old stone bench, pitted and twisted with the little creepers of brown, dead ivy.

"Tell me about your father," Kristina said, breaking the stillness. "I've heard some about Alphonse, but I want to hear more."

He shifted again, and took her hands. Grateful for the warmth, she snuggled closer.

"Kristina," he said rapidly, "Can you meet me after your performance, the day after tomorrow? There's a chop house off of Boulevard Hausmann; the English go there. A 'pub,' they call it. They say it reminds them of home. I think you would like it, and we can talk there, about Alphonse, about Rennes, about whatever you want."

Something in his manner struck her as strange. She wanted time to think, to put this through the filter of Anneke's wits. "After Samson, then. I'd like that."

"I'll wait for you in a cab, on the corner of Rue Scribe and Rue des Mathurins."

"Isn't that extravagant? I'm used to walking, after all. I'm not like some of these Parisian girls, afraid to get a spot of mud on their boots."

He turned, face open and tender. "I already knew that. But for you, no, it's not extravagant at all."

The sun was beginning to lower in the sky. "I have to go back," Kristina said. "Anneke will wonder where I am."

They turned the corner from Rue Feydeau to Rue Phillipe de Lyon, heading back to the flat. The weight of his hand resting on her shoulder reminded Kristina that he had barely broken his touch since they first kissed. At her door, under the streetlight, he looked up at her window almost familiarly, as if he knew it well, and then kissed her delicately and tenderly all over on the mouth. A tiny flicker of the _Julbock's_ madness flared under her skin, and she let his mouth go, crowing a little inside in triumph at the tiny flicker of disappointment which crossed his face, a disappointment that he checked at once like an unruly horse.

She started to go inside the building, but instead watched as he strode off down the street, so much faster than when his long strides were shortened to fit hers. Then he turned and waved before rounding the corner, and he was gone.

Anneke was reading a newspaper, and she looked up casually when Kristina let herself in.

"Out for a walk on Christmas Day?" she asked, a little too calmly.

The mounds of red and gold tissue and the folio of Pappa's music still lay on the sideboard.

"I didn't clean it up," Kristina stammered. "I'll get it now."

"You had company."

"I did. M. Niemann came by to give me his Christmas present. Look, Anneke, he's finished Papa's cantata. I'd like to find a trio to play it, and for us to sing it together. Then we went out walking. Did you enjoy yourself at Fru Guttingen's?"

"It was a full house. Pastor Ambrosius asked about you, as your dancing a polka with him on Christmas Eve apparently made quite an impression. He's old-fashioned and terribly shy; he desperately wanted to ask me for permission to come court you, but couldn't quite cough it out."

Kristina folded up the red and gold paper to save for the next holiday season, but didn't say anything.

"You met his son," Anneke went on. "The little boy in the green velvet suit; you talked to him, remember? His name's Eskil."

"He gave me a jelly sweet," Kristina said absently. "He didn't want to, at first, but he did anyway. Anyway, isn't it odd that a widower would be so shy?" Then a cold thought slapped Kristina. "He'll be at the embassy Tuesday, won't he?"

"No doubt. Don't be surprised if he has something to present to you afterwards."

"Anneke, that's crazy. I'm still a Catholic, on paper anyway."

"Well, who knows what he assumed?"

"And he's, oh, I don't know," and Kristina threw her hands up.

"I do," Anneke said quietly. "It's written on your face. Poor Herr Ambrosius has been lonely without his wife."

Kristina's face stiffened. All desire to talk about Alberich with Anneke left her. "Anneke," she began, but the older woman cut her off.

"Not now," Anneke said. "I would have liked to meet him, that's all. But all in good time."

It was so simple and straightforward, yet Kristina couldn't say a word. Red and speechless, she fled for the sanctuary of her room, where she bathed her burning, flushed cheeks_. Lutheran. Pastor's wife. Stepmother. And why didn't I bring Alberich back to meet her? I can't think about this now. _ _She thinks I'm in love with Alberich. I could love him. I could love him, but why does he hide from me? What does he hide?_

(Continued…)


	17. A Winter Night

**Chapter 17: A Winter Night**

Yuletide was supposed to continue on until Twelfth Night, but Paris couldn't wait to start the next season of Carnival, all a-glitter with lights. Even in the January cold, the hurdy-gurdies on the street sounded more frantic than usual. The ribbons and feathers which bedecked the matrons of the theater brought out the red stenciled on their lips, and the hectic flushes of their cheeks.

It was two days after Christmas, and Kristina and Anneke were making King's Cakes for Twelfth Night. After being baked, they'd be soaked in brandy to ripen for Epiphany, and sprinkled with almonds before serving. With an abrupt slap, Kristina threw down the dough she'd been kneading and said to Anneke, "All this Yuletime I've been a liar. I never did go beat that rug."

Anneke raised her eyebrows. "Is this some new joke from the theater, one you enjoy among yourselves?"

"I think I might have finally gotten Louvel de Coucy off my hands. Do you remember Mme. Letourneau, my understudy? He invited us both to tea, and my excuse was rug-cleaning. So they went on together, and have been barely out of each other's sight since."

Anneke laughed and pointed to the small rag rug in front of the kitchen sink. "Go beat that one," she said. "The wire beater's on the hook there. Anyway, what's your schedule for the next few days?"

"Tonight there's _Samson et Dalila_, then a rest, and in two days' time _Romeo et Juliette_. I'm Stefano again, and my understudy is happy because she's playing the nurse. Then sometime next week we play _Faust,_ too." She sighed, as if that didn't please her. "_Faust _is so over-done, but they never seem to get tired of it. It packs the audiences in."

"Siebel again?" Anneke asked. "Will you need Amelie to help you change clothes?"

"I don't think so. I can manage alone. And by the way, I'll be late tonight. Supper after Samson. Hm, that could even be the title of a play."

Anneke wasn't easy to divert. "When am I going to meet him?"

"Him?"

"Neither one of the de Coucys, certainly. It's the one you don't talk about who interests me the most."

"When I'm ready to measure him for a bridegroom's shirt, I guess."

"Don't play with him, Kristina. He sounds like a serious man."

Kristina turned away, embarrassed.

Anneke picked up Kristina's neglected ball of dough and shaped it into a round loaf. "Men's hearts break just as women's do. The difference is, men keep their pain inside."

"I think someone did hurt him," Kristina said after a long silence. "But he's told me so little."

"Perhaps tonight is the night for questions, then. Do you think women have spurned him because of his face?"

"Maybe ."

"Or maybe that's just an excuse. I would bet many old maids are telling their beads and stitching their samplers even as we speak, probably because something other than the men's faces scare them off."

Kristina burst out laughing, and Anneke joined in. Anneke's not that old, Kristina thought. She misses her old professor. Her hair might be gray, but she still wants a warm bed. DoI want Alberich that way, so that thirty years from now when my own hair is gray and his even grayer, I would still need him warm beside me? She fingered the Julbock's gift of the red ribbon, which had faded to rose. Around her neck she'd hung it with a little red crystal heart. A long pang went through her like a sword thrust.

o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

When the pillars collapsed around Samson, Kristina felt as if her own peace of mind lay in rubble with them. It seemed as if everything had gone wrong. As she walked to her dressing room, the memory of the frozen faces of the audience chilled her all the way there. They had applauded politely; there were no hisses or catcalls, but for once she was glad that she couldn't see much of their expressions past the tenth row.

As she changed into a dark red dinner dress, she noticed on her dresser a card from Etienne. Penned at intermission, it praised her as a "radiantly deadly Dalila in a fatally flawed production." He had missed his calling as a critic, hadn't he? Never mind, she couldn't worry about Etienne now, not with Alberich waiting. She didn't even want to think about the papers tomorrow_. _I hope this isn't too plain for where we're going, she thought as she adjusted her hat. What do the English wear to a 'pub' anyway? What is a 'pub,' for that matter? I'm so tired, and my legs ache. Thank you, Alberich, for calling for a cabriolet_._

Three lone carriages sat on the west side of the opera. She looked around rapidly, not seeing him at first. A wave of fatigue came over her, and she tried to push down the little flame of annoyance which cut through the tiredness. Where is he? We keep men waiting, but it's not so nice when the shoe's on the other foot, is it?

Then a tall figure clad in dark grey moved around from behind one of the cabs. Alberich turned away from the driver, with whom he had been chatting, and slowly made his way through the crowd which thronged the broad pavement. He seemed not to see the people at all, but just glided forward like one of those ships of old, which could sail from the open ocean right up a river with oars entirely silent.

She wanted to fall up against him and close her eyes, just to feel the scratchy wool of his coat on her face. Just to smell him.

His hands swallowed hers as he swallowed her with his eyes. He'd changed his usual old worn suede for a dark unpretentious evening coat. Trim and handsome he stood before her, and she could tell he wanted to kiss her, but hung back, shy under the coachman's watchful eye.

The trotter's graceful legs ending in pale socks, and there was just a hint of curve to his neck. "May I?" Kristina asked the driver, putting her hand out to stroke the horse's flank.

The driver nodded curtly, and she bristled a little_. _He thinks I'm stupid, to pet a work animal. Or he's in a hurry_._ "Do we have time?" she asked Alberich. The horse looked over at the two of them with a bland expression, slightly shrugging.

"He's ours all evening," Alberich replied, and so she stroked the trotter's side and neck for a moment longer.

She stepped up into the carriage, and he called to her to watch her skirt. On the seat was a thick woven Indian blanket, the kind one might see in a Wild West show. She set it over her knees and they squeezed into the small cab, sitting thigh to thigh.

With a shudder the cab lurched to a start, and with the click of iron shoes on cobblestones, they were off. Kristina leaned up against the padded inside wall, eyes half closed. We could have walked it, she thought. This is awfully luxurious. But his warm, close leg and shoulder justified the luxury. She rested her head on his shoulder for just a second, until another jolt marked the end of the indulgently short ride.

The Duke's Arms hid behind a heavy shuttered façade. Studded oak doors swung suddenly open, and several thickset gentlemen in top hats pushed out, red-faced and loud. They brushed past Alberich and Kristina with not a glance, intent in their argument.

"Englishmen aren't like Parisians, are they, who can't pass a girl by without staring at her?"

"Those were Americans," Alberich said as the group went past.

"You can tell the difference? Can you understand them?"

"A little. The Americans are noisier and sound different. I don't know English well, so it's hard to explain. They were arguing about something called 'Harrison' and 'Republicans,' and I heard Hawaii mentioned."

A fat, florid waiter greeted them. Alberich answered him back in his own tongue, asked something, but the waiter shook his head and Alberich looked slightly dismayed. Then the waiter gestured toward the side and after another exchange of incomprehensible babble, led the two of them off to a wooden booth lined with plush green seats and a small, cozy table.

"What did you say?" Kristina asked.

"I wanted to know if he had a private room, but they were full. He had this booth instead."

The low-hanging, beamed ceiling made the spacious room smaller. Groups of men sat at tables; the few ladies with gentlemen were seated in the booths that lined the walls. Instead of the tarts and _lorettes_ who decorated restaurants in Paris, the ladies seemed to be wives, or at least women who exuded an air of respectability.

In the next room, men clustered around a billiards table. On the smoky air hung a scent that made both her eyes and mouth water: the scent of meat thrown naked onto a hot flame.

"I think the lady will like the table," the waiter said awkwardly, smiling at me.

"So you speak a little French," Alberich said to him.

"Some, but I don't say much. Parisians are critical. No offense, Monsieur."

Alberich laughed. "None taken. You can practice with the lady and I."

The waiter's eyes flicked rapidly over Kristina's left hand. Looking for a ring, no doubt, she thought.

"Would Mademoiselle like an _apertif?_"

"Do you like ale?" Alberich asked her .

"Ale?"

"We call it 'English beer,' and here they serve it heavy, dark, and bitter. You can get a light one, too, more like the beer we're used to, but it's not as good." Kristina nodded, so he said, "Ale, dark," and then turned his warm glance on her as he reached for her hand under the tablecloth. "You'll want either the beefsteak or the lamb ribs; both are excellent."

When the waiter turned away to busy himself with their requests, Alberich turned to her again all warm and open. "You were splendid tonight, and you sounded so rich, like warm honey."

"Samson called her his 'honey dripping through the teeth of a lioness.' Such a sad story. Not the play, the performance. I don't even want to read the papers tomorrow. I wondered if you'd come, because I missed you at intermission."

"I was trying to hire the cab. I should have sent you a note. I don't think of things like that, usually."

"It's all right," and then a flurry in front of the restaurant took their attention.

A rangy, red-headed man in a bright canary waistcoat came up to their table and called out in boisterous, barely understandable French, "Niemann! Alberich Niemann, isn't it? I'd know your ugly face anywhere. Where have you been hiding yourself? In a cellar?" With him was a petite brunette in a tight magenta suit, who looked daggers at Kristina. Kristina groaned inside. Out from under the elaborate hat garnished with silk roses peeked the sharp face of Mirella, the Eclectic Theater's lead ballerina and Etienne's erstwhile mistress.

Alberich rose and the red man grasped his hand vigorously. "Introductions all around," he boomed. "Miss, I'll call you that because I know that Big, Tall and Ugly here doesn't have the sense to get married. I'm Kinnon McLeod, originally of Paisely, that's in Scotland, not England I'll have you know, and this is Miss Mirella … what was your last name, honey?"

Mirella smiled without humor and said, "Plantier. But please, such formality is unnecessary. Friends and foes alike know me simply as Mirella."

"That's right, Miss Mirella Plantier, of the Eclectic Theater Ballet." Then he stopped, thunderstruck. "And you're …"

"Mademoiselle Kristina Sigurdsdotter," Alberich said. "Mademoiselle Plantier, I'm charmed," but Mirella didn't raise her hand to him. Kristina offered her hand to McLeod, who actually kissed it. He probably doesn't know how rude that is, Kristina thought, and wiped her hand off on the tablecloth. How did Alberich know this obnoxious man? And what was he doing with Mirella?

"The little Delilah from tonight," he said. "Miss, never did such a bad woman look so good."

Kristina stared at Alberich as if that could make him hear her unspoken thoughts_. _Don't ask him to join us. Just don't. A sinking feeling crept up from the pit of her stomach. Etienne's thrown Mirella off, I'll bet, thinking that way he can get to me. No wonder Mirella is staring at me like I grew another head. What did Etienne tell her? Not that Mirella would sit with us anyway.

The dancer glared at Kristina again. She slid her gloved hand into the crook of McLeod's arm and gave it a slight tug.

"I looked all over Paris for you," McLeod boomed to Alberich, ignoring Mirella's attempt to lure him away. "You restored my buildings after the war, and they're the most usable warehouses in Paris now. That's the good news. On the other hand, I just had a new house built, and what a disaster that's been. I needed you to build it, not the thieves I hired. I looked all over for you but it was as if you'd disappeared. No one could tell me where you'd gone. Instead I got this idiot that I've had to sue, and see how far a Scotsman can get in a Paris court. So what are you building now, if you don't have time for me?"

"I'm working at the Eclectic Theater, finishing up the conversion to electric lights. Before that, I was in Algeria, working on a hotel. I'm soon to be between jobs, you might say."

"You're crazy, going to Algeria. What was the point of that? There's more work here in Paris than you could ever do. You might as well do some of it for me," McLeod said.

"Darling," Mirella said to McLeod with a slow drawl, so that he couldn't misunderstand, "I'm famished. I've danced my little feet to the bone."

McLeod half-bowed to Kristina, and gave Alberich an engraved card. "Stay the hell out of Algeria," he said. "Call me if you want to build in Paris."

Mirella bent over as if to say good-bye. She hadn't suddenly recovered her manners, though. Into Kristina's ear she whispered rapid-fire words which Alberich couldn't hear, and which McLeod hadn't a chance of understanding, "I'm so pleased to know that you've relinquished the dance floor to the ballet corps once more."

"You're welcome to whatever littletriumphs you can get," Kristina hissed in return.

Mirella scowled at Alberich's thick poet's hair and his unpretentious suit, then said in the same quiet, icy voice, "Good to see you've moved on to territory more befitting your station."

The two men looked up, sensing some baring of the claws, but said their good-byes unimpeded by the sound of scratching.

"Do you like the dark ale?" Alberich asked as McLeod steered Mirella over to their own table, across the room. When Kristina nodded, he said, "What was that about at the end, there?"

Kristina gave a little smile. "Just theater gossip." Inwardly she cringed. He doesn't know any of it, she thought. He was in Rennes the whole time, or en route. But how can I tell him? He'll think I'm 'light,' and maybe I am. I've been to supper with more men in a month than I have in all my previous time in Paris. And then there was that weird encounter in the cloakroom at Christmas, or was that a dream? "Some silly theatrical rivalry," she said, a little sick at the white lie. Well, it's not like he's said anything to me about running into Louvel de Coucy in the churchyard, either, she rationalized. Time to change the subject. "So do you think you'll do some work for that big red Scotsman?"

His glance was cool. "It depends upon whether or not I decide to stay in Paris."

That made her swallow hard.

The waiter brought trays, thick chops seared and smoking, and round-cut fried potatoes. Kristina missed mint for the lamb, but the chops didn't need it, with their brown crackled fat on the edges and oozing pink insides. But after a few bites, the meat stuck in her throat, and even wetting it with ale couldn't make it go down.

"I wasn't honest with you," she said to Alberich in a small voice. "It wasn't just a theater thing. A lot has happened since Ploumanac'h, and neither of us seems to want to bring it up."

"Now that you mention it, there was that interesting engagement in the cemetery. Who was that young man that tried to rip the coat off my back? I was about ready to knock him down. As it was, I wasn't going to hit him in the chapel. He had the audacity to ask me what I was doing there."

"He's Louvel de Chagny, a Vicomte."

"A Vicomte, eh?" Alberich said. He didn't sound impressed.

"Louvel is young and foolish and thinks he's in love with me in a worshipful sort of way. At least he was; he's been mercifully quiet recently. He spent part of the night in the church, freezing. Come to think of it, he said he'd fallen on the steps outside, but the priest said he was inside, laid in a corner and covered with an old horse blanket. How did he get in there, I wonder."

"He got in there because I dragged him in when he was insensible. It was better than leaving him outside to freeze. If I'd known he would have stayed unconscious so long, I wouldn't have left him there."

Kristina sighed. "Louvel is a year older than me, and a military man, but he's such a boy in so many ways. He raved to the doctor in Ploumanac'h about 'a demon' with a 'face like a skull.' It was so embarrassing."

"If you don't mind me asking," Alberich said in a cooler tone than she wanted to hear, "how was it that he wound up in Ploumanac'h in the first place?"

"We knew each other as older children, for a few summers. His family came to the shore on holiday, and so did we. They didn't want the fiddler's daughter visiting their country home, so we went to the beach and roamed the fields around our cottage. Don't look that way, it was all very innocent. He knew Pappa. When I went up to hear Pappa's memorial Mass, and do my devotions, I let him know."

He said nothing, just sipped his ale.

"I didn't invite him, although he thought I did. I thought he would just have a Mass said for Pappa at the Madeleine, or something. Believe me, I was shocked to see him come all that way. I don't love him, either, if that's what you're thinking." His face was quiet, and so she said, "It's not like you've declared yourself. Why should I feel that I have to tell you?"

In that same remote tone he replied, "You don't have to tell me anything, unless you want to. So what is the Vicomte, that ballerina's lover?"

Anneke's yarn used to get like this, so snarled you couldn't tell which end to pull. "No, Monsieur de Coucy has an older brother, a Comte, who's on the board of directors of the Eclectic Theater. The Comte's mistress is Mirella, the prima ballerina of the dance corps, whom we just met. Or at least she used to be his mistress. The Comte de Coucy wrote me, telling me he wanted to discuss my 'relationship' with his brother. What he wanted to do was warn me off, and that idea had my full cooperation, I assure you."

At least Alberich didn't look angry, so she went on. "I met with the Comte de Coucy at Café Bretano's. I asked him to keep Louvel … the Vicomte otherwise occupied." She didn't feel obligated to mention Etienne's suggestion that she herself keep Louvel occupied, but in a way that wouldn't include marriage. "Since half the waiters at Bretano's either sing, dance or want to, obviously news of our meeting got back to Mirella." That was as much of the truth as she wanted to give out. Etienne's fingers tracing her palm, and her sick headache the next morning could be passed over.

"What a time you had while I was mending a roof in Rennes. This could form the plot of an opera," he commented.

Was he being sarcastic? She said, "It was an unspeakably rude thing for the Vicomte to do. It put me in a humiliating position. But the rest, it was foolish and I did it to myself, meeting with his brother like that. All I need next is for the dancers to call me a 'jinx' or something. There's such rivalry anyway; they think they work so much harder than we do, and get so little notice, and they're probably right. You know what's worst? The little ballet girls used to come by my dressing room, but now they don't, for fear of running afoul of Mirella and her clique."

"Kristina, I've seen Etienne de Coucy. I don't hold for titles, and am glad that I was born after the worst excesses of the Second Empire and the chaos that resulted when it fell. At least those Alphonse and I served ruled other men from sheer force alone, refreshingly free of any delusions of natural superiority. The most brutal won out; that was the way of their world. You were expected to tremble - you were not expected to worship."

"You're not angry that I went to supper with him?"

"As you said yourself, I hadn't declared anything to you. But do I care that you did? Very much. I envy him your time, and I envy him his suavity. I've had very little experience with women myself. I was fifteen when Alphonse and I went to Algiers. We lived at court, in a court building reserved for foreign engineers and builders. My mother stayed in France, and none of the other men brought their wives, either, if they had them.

"It's the strangest thing, to go out to the marketplace or plaza, and see so few women. The men are everywhere; drinking coffee, smoking, playing dice or cards, arguing in the cafes, but unlike here, there are hardly any women to be seen. There were brothels, and the engineers tried to get me to go with them, but I was afraid. Not of the women so much, but of being drugged and sold, even though the Emir's attache told Alphonse once point-blank that my face made me an unlikely target.

"Do you remember the castrato I told you about, Cassinelli? He mocked the attache and said, idiot, it's not his face they'd take him for, but his voice. My voice had just broken, but Cassinelli told my father that there was a demand, small but still there, for eunuch tenors and even baritones. I had just begun to study with him and hadn't yet appreciated the unique dimensions of the castrato's voice. Keep him close at hand, Cassinelli told my father on more than one occasion, and once he screeched hysterically at the other builders who teased me, screaming 'If that boy's snipped, it will be on your heads.'

"In Algier the Emir had an artisan in stone named Malik, and we became friends. He actually offered to arrange a marriage for me with his young sister, but told me that I would have to convert to Islam first. That shouldn't be a problem for you, he remarked, as you're a pretty bad Catholic, and of course he was right.

"What makes you think I'd be a better Mohammedan than I am a Catholic? I asked. He replied, I know you, friend. You are a bad Catholic because you argue. In your head you are always arguing with your God, with your Isa. You want to know why this happened, why that happened, why your face is not beautiful, why things haven't worked out better. You say to your Isa, give me the answer I want, and I'll come back to you.

"He told me, On the other hand, a follower of Allah doesn't argue; he submits. There is no arguing. Men find themselves where Allah puts them, with the face Allah gives them. Submit to Allah, he said, and I can give you my sister, a soft little dove of sixteen, who will make you a devoted wife and bear you many sons. When you've been to our home, she has seen you through the screen already, and has more than once told me that she would go to you if it were my will. I am not like my father of blessed memory, who made my other sisters marry whether they liked the man or not. Nonetheless, I can't give her to an unbeliever, as much as I like and respect you."

"But you didn't marry her."

"I will tell you, I thought about it. I'd already turned down a French bourgeoisie marriage, in a family of colonials. Alponse was dead and strangers were living in the home of my birth. I knew were I to embrace Malik as a brother in his religion, my few connections with the French community in Algeria would have been entirely severed. They frowned upon men who left the faith and married local girls. It would mean immersing myself entirely in Algerian society, as an Algerian. Not that that would have been an altogether bad thing. Having the language and the religion would have made it possible, but something held me back."

"You would have missed your homeland, I would think."

"That is true, but it was more basic than that. I didn't know this woman, no, not even a woman, but a mere girl. She had no face which I could imagine, no voice to command my attention. Whatever spirit she had, I was forbidden to know it unless I agreed to take her blindly, as a male takes a female animal."

Kristina flushed, but he didn't seem to see it. "I let it drop, as did Malik. My contract was up and the hotel was finished, so I returned to Paris with my crumbled faith unchallenged."

"Would you have married her if you could have seen her face, talked to her first?" she asked, fearing the answer_. _He said he wanted to go back to Algeria, perhaps soon, she remembered.

A strange light lit his eyes. "Honestly, yes, I think I might have. She had already seen me. It's not like there were any surprises for her there. The only surprise there would have been for me."

The waiter cleared the trays, and Alberich gave her a long, searching look. "The forests are beautiful in the evening, and we have the carriage."

Something soft and warm opened inside her. "I would like that."

Settled in the cabriolet, he wrapped the thick Indian blanket around both of them. "To the Bois de Vincennes," he told the driver, and off they rode to the east. Kristina hid her face, embarrassed when they passed the sentry at the checkpoint of the city wall, as she tried not to imagine what the soldier thought about a girl riding out with a man into the forest at night.

"The Bois de Boulougne is more popular," he commented, as they slowly made their way around the almost-deserted lake, its pale white temple glinting under the moon. "But this is wilder, more like a real forest. You can imagine all kinds of things living and walking among the woods."

"Have you thought much about returning to Algeria?" she asked. She slipped her ungloved hand into his warm, rough one, which opened to her exploration. "M. McLeod seemed to think there was much work for builders here in Paris."

"I had thought about going back," he said, looking off at the moonlit lake. "In fact, I've written the letter, but haven't sent it, because now I am not so sure."

"But surely there's nothing holding you here," she remarked, trying to sound light and unconcerned. "How long has it been since your father has passed on?"

"It's been seven years now."

Kristina crossed herself and commented, "He must have not been that terribly old."

"Seventy-two, a most advanced age. I was twenty-six at the time."

"December met June, obviously."

"More like December met April. He married my mother when he was in his early forties, while she herself was only seventeen. She was his laundress."

She had to ask. "Did he love her?"

"How do any of us know what our parents really think? He treated her well, and she never lacked for anything within reason. He built the house before bringing her to it. She wasn't happy, it was plain, and when young I assumed that it was all due to me. He did his duty by her, but I cannot say if he loved her. If he did, it was in a way entirely his own. It was a love of doing, not of pretty words."

If he saw her blush in the dim light, he probably thought it was because his long leg warmed hers under the blanket, and not because she was embarrassed at having listened too closely to Etienne's sweet words. "My father loved my mother to distraction," Kristina said. "When she died he fell into a deep melancholy. That was when he started talking to the angels."

"How do you know he didn't?" he asked simply.

Kristina looked up in surprise at his sphinx-like face. Half of it gleamed in the moonlight, while the other half was buried in shadow. "You sound like Anneke, I mean Mme. Sibelius. I suppose you could say she is my godmother, although that's not quite right. She's a good Lutheran, but reads Swedenborg, who like Pappa also claimed to talk with angels. I think at bottom Anneke is perfectly willing to accept conversation with the spirits, as long as you don't lose your head about it and can still earn an honest living. Anyway, if Pappa had played music in Paris, even as the lowliest violinist in the pit, he could have talked with as many angels as he'd wanted, and Anneke couldn't have cared less. It was the idleness brought on by Papa's madness which infuriated Anneke, not his angelic companions."

"So it's only madness if it impairs the practical abilities?"

"I think so. Of course, there's always the possibility of lying. That hurt more than anything, that Anneke thought Pappa was lazy, that he lied to get out of things."

"It comes down to a matter of trust, doesn't it?"

"Yes," she said, snuggling closer to him. Then almost before she knew it, he leaned over and kissed her mouth softly with his. She could feel him reining himself in as he covered her lips with delicate little excursions. He held his mouth on hers for a long time, almost as long as it took the carriage horse to trot around the lake, and then he broke softly away.

The moonlight bleached all the color out of his face, making it a white alien landscape that she didn't know how to navigate, a blasted and lonely terrain with crevasses into which she could fall and lose herself entirely. They didn't speak anymore; just held hands under the blanket on the long ride back into Paris.

(_Continued_)


	18. Bundling

**Bundling**

The evening's performance of _Romeo et Juliette_ started off on the wrong foot. When a prop handler crossed the stage with a vase of peacock feathers to decorate the Capulet's masked ball, M. Rossignol stamped his foot and screamed, "Get those out of here at once!" He ran to the path over which the vase had traveled, alternately spitting and shouting, "_Merde_! _Merde_!"

"That idiot," said Lorello to Kristina. "Peacock feathers, of all things! They enrage the _larvae_ and the _genii_ of the theater. Rossignol will get him sacked." Then Lorello made the "devil's horns" with his fingers and spit in the prop handler's direction. Riali, costumed as Mercutio, leaned over to Kristina and laughed. "You know why that old superstition arose, don't you? No actor can stand to see anything more vain than himself."

"You're the expert," Kristina remarked in a sour voice. She'd hoped to sing Juliette tonight, but as usual, Renata sailed in at the last minute, so Kristina wore the blue hose and doublet of a Renaissance youth.

Riali gave Kristina a wicked grin. "If any of those Capulets get too free with their hands during your scene, just signal me and I'll prick them with my sword before I expire. You know that an actor likes nothing more than a girl in tights."

"I'd trust them more than you," she answered back. He waved his sword menacingly at the Capulets as the call came, "Places!"

Later, when Kristina's Stephano ran forward to taunt the Capulets into the fatal frenzy that would end in Mercutio's bloody death, the stage flashed with bright white light. She ignored it, keeping her eyes on the Capulet minions and her person well out of the way of their grabbing hands. A few with more refined manners blew kisses at her. Then another flash came, this one even brighter than the one before. This one caught her attention, and in panic she realized, There's no lighting effect like that in this scene. What are the limelight operators doing? The light brightened up again, and this time held for several breaths. Finally Kristina looked up, as did some of the other singers.

The large chandelier glowed with gaslight, as it had still not yet been converted to electricity. Some of the patrons' wives and mistresses had complained that the new electric lights reflected badly on their complexions, so the managers had asked Alberich and his workmen to hold off that part until the very last. But now the chandelier glowed as if a torch had been lit inside it. Rossignol glared and rapped his baton when more of the players turned their heads and even stopped singing.

Mercutio lay bleeding and dying in Romeo's arms when another flash of light flooded the auditorium, and this time some in the audience shouted with surprise. The chandelier blazed with a blue fire reflected through the prisms of a thousand tiny crystals. Sparks like shooting stars flashed up and fell into the audience below, and people cried out in anger and fear.

"Get out!" a loud, commanding voice called from the back of the auditorium, but no one moved. The orchestra stopped playing only when Rossignol lowered his baton and turned around to look. He then waved his hands in frantic panic at the musicians in the pit. They hesitated, picking up their instruments.

"Leave them," Rossignol cried, but no one paid attention. One of the bass players tried to pull his heavy instrument out of the pit, and it fell back down with a loud bang.

"Get out, but don't run!" the voice came again, closer and more imperative this time. The huge sound of that voice thundered through the auditorium as people edged their way to the aisles.

An acrid smell of burning metal filled the air. Kristina looked around in fear, not sure what to do. Then the chandelier erupted into a blazing ball of fire. She stood rooted to the spot as the enormous crystal structure burst into blue and white flame, yellow around the edges where it seared the bronzing. Small crackles cut through the cries and exclamations of the audience as the flared-up fireball sputtered and burned.

"Get out!" the stirring voice called again. "But don't run! Be calm!"

Kristina's breath left her. Alberich? Was it possible?

A few panicked individuals ran for the doors. Others followed more slowly, and some didn't move at all, but just stared at the ball of flame. A black smudge grew around the ceiling closest to the chandelier as the paint caught fire. Then, with a huge crack, the explosion sent burning crystal raining to the floor below. Women screamed in earnest now and audience members began to run. An actress dressed as a Capulet lady pushed past Kristina, almost knocking her over. Lorello pulled his cloak over Kristina and yelled, "Get down!" They went to their knees, cowering under his cloak.

The shot of the second explosion sent another loud crack ringing through the auditorium. Glass tinkled again, this time rattling against the wood of the stage. The screams of panic came louder. Kristina peeked out from under the cloak, but Lorello pulled her back under with a bellow, "Do you want to lose an eye?"

Something thudded on Kristina's shoulder and rolled down onto the floor. She peeked out again, but more carefully this time, so that Lorello didn't see. A small crystalline orb glittered before her. She reached out to touch the crystal, and then yanked her hand back in pain. The little hook which once held the ovoid to the chandelier was alive with flame.

Then the same loud voice shouted, "Out of the way," and up the center aisle ran Alberich. He leapt onto the stage and made his way to the back. As he headed for the catwalk which led to the flies above, he knocked two or three people down as he came forward like a charging bull. In a blur of black evening dress, his long hair flying behind him, he climbed up hand over hand. A few of the velvet cushions in the orchestra section started to burn.

"The sand buckets!" someone called.

Riali got up from the stage floor, grabbed a sand bucket and threw its contents across the orchestra pit onto one of the burning seat cushions, and a few other men did the same. Up in the catwalks Alberich climbed, until he vanished from sight. From the top of the flies above the stage came yells, thumps, and assorted curses.

Then Lisette Avenelle screamed, "It's the Opera Ghost! I recognize him!"

"Where?" "Where?" "The man in black, with the long hair …" "Oh, my God, it is him." All this came from the ballerinas gathered backstage, staring up at the flies.

The fiery chandelier went out as if someone had thrown a switch, even though its blackened skeleton still glowed with heat. A few more crystals popped and fell. People ran everywhere as waves of black silk and glittering white satin crashed against the resisting walls of the exits. A few people lay on the ground or over the nearby seats. Only a few of the uninjured stayed to give them aid.

Lorello grabbed Kristina's arm. "We have to get out of here. Who knows what else will come tumbling down on our heads?"

"Wait," Kristina said. "Where is he? Where did he go?"

"_Cara_, I don't know. Now come on!"

"No, I have to find him. He's got to be around here somewhere!"

Kristina pulled out of Lorello's grasp, ran from the stage, and leapt into the aisle, almost stepping on a woman whose face and bosom were covered with blood. The woman reached for her, moaning, and Kristina helped her to her feet. Her dress had once been a fairy-tale princess's dream woven of glittering beads, but it was ruined now.

"Can you walk?" Kristina asked.

The woman sobbed, "I think so." One of the theater policemen took her from Kristina. Now the uniformed men moved among the remaining crowd, and some of them pointed up and stared at the ruined chandelier. A man with blood streaming down over his white shirt-front pulled another man to his feet, then used his kerchief to staunch the flow oozing from the fallen man's arm.

More police arrived, waving at everyone who could walk to get away. Men with stretchers loaded up the wounded and moved them out. One older officer with thick grey moustaches came up onstage and peered up into the flies with great interest, making notes and sketches in a little book. "Everyone off the stage," he yelled. "Police business. "Evidence. Leave everything untouched." But other than shards of shattered glass there was nothing to touch.

"Out of here, you all!" a tall thin policeman shouted. "Clear out, so we can get these wounded out of here!"

Kristina wandered back to the orchestra pit, not knowing where to go or what to do. The stench of burning wood and upholstery made her a little sick. A bit of blood stained the sleeve of her page's costume, but it wasn't hers, and she absently wiped it off with her handkerchief. She wanted to wail like a child, to cry out his name with the full volume of her voice, until he came to her, to take her out of this hellish scene of glass and blood and fire. Then it struck her. Where else would Alberich go, except to her dressing room? She ran from the stage, ignoring Lorello's cries of concern.

Just as she reached the dressing room door, three men bustled past her in a commotion. "Tell me," Kristina called out to them. "What's happening now?"

"Some were wounded by the falling glass, but the noise gave most of them a bit of a warning, and that voice booming from the rafters didn't hurt either, the saints be praised," said one, and he made the sign of the cross. "I think more got hurt by the trampling, as they all panicked."

"The police are looking for that man with long hair who ran up the flies," another stagehand said. "Someone turned off the gas, and they think it was him. Hard to say what would have happened if he hadn't."

"How'd he know where to go, is what they want to know," said the third man.

Then first man looked at Kristina closely. "You're all right, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, thank you. I'm just going into my dressing room now."

"We're very lucky. It could have been far worse."

"It's the mercy of God the whole chandelier didn't fall," one of the men said.

"It's a mercy that the whole place didn't go up in flames," said the first man. Then the three of them then hurried off down the hall.

Kristina put her hand on the knob of the unlocked door, telling herself, I'll open it and he'll be there. He could have let himself in. He'll be sitting in the big chair, with his long legs stretched out.

The room was empty.

She stood shaking by the vanity but couldn't bring herself to look in the mirror. Throwing the bloody kerchief down, she pulled a clean one from the drawer, moving like a sleepwalker. The blood and glass were bad enough, but what paralyzed her were the panicked faces of the crowd as they had turned into a mob, and had then turned on each other in the race for the doors.

Things went slightly green and she felt sick, but rather than faint, she set her head down on the cool vanity top. The cold felt good, like a marble hand against the forehead. I can't come back here tomorrow, she thought. Contract or not, they can't make me. After these grueling rehearsals, and now this. They'll have to understand. Then she realized that no one was coming back to the Eclectic Theater tomorrow, not at least until all this chaos was cleaned up.

She sat on the vanity stool for a long time, face buried in her hands, so that she didn't hear the click of the door behind her. Then two warm hands rested on her shoulders, gently turned her around and lifted her up into waiting arms. Alberich stood covered with white dust and cobwebs, his hair in disarray and coat torn. To his chest he pulled her and there she broke down sobbing, all the pent-up fear rushing out into a flood of tears which soaked the front of his vest.

Some blood from her doublet made rust stains on the bright white linen of his shirt. "Oh, look what I've done now," she said, and he lifted her chin to look at her face, his own furrowed with concern.

"I don't think you're cut," he said. "Let's have a look." He ran water in the bathroom and sponged her face off, inspecting the washrag for tiny shards of glass.

"Lorello hid me under his cloak," Kristina sniffled. "He yelled at me to keep my head down, said I might lose an eye."

"That was good advice," Alberich said, as he continued to sponge. "There, I don't see any cuts at all."

"It must have been the blood of the woman in the beaded dress. I helped her up and she was covered in it." Her legs started to shake and the room went green again. As she crumpled, he lifted her with no effort at all, and carried her over to the divan. She trembled and clung to him, still leaking tears.

"Shall I get a cab to take you home?" he said quietly, stroking her head, still sponging her face with the cool cloth, not so much to clean her anymore, but just to calm her.

"Don't leave me," she said as she clung to him. "I don't want to go home tonight, and I can't stay here. I don't know what to do," and she buried her face in his sleeve, crying again.

He stiffened and said nothing for a long moment, as if he were deliberating something, performing some calculation of which she wasn't a part. Then, in a soft, impassive voice he said, "Come stay with me tonight."

Kristina fought back shock at Alberich's suggestion. She looked up to see if he was joking with her, or mocking, but his calm face showed no change. Suddenly she felt a great rush of warm affection for him. He doesn't leer, doesn't grasp, doesn't seduce, she thought. But he desires. I can feel the longing rise from deep within him, from the soft core of his bones, up through his muscles that lap those bones so beautifully. It rises through his skin and seeps through the wool which veils his chest, that swathes his strong, slender hips. Yet he doesn't push. Not like Louvel, or Etienne.

"I don't invite you for indiscretion," he said, watching her face carefully, "but so that you have someone with you. I have a couch, and you may have my bed."

"But your concierge…" Kristina began.

"I have no concierge," he interrupted. He trembled under his coat, but it wasn't clear whether for fear that she'd say no, or yes.

"Is it far?" Kristina asked. "My legs are still shaking."

"It's a bit of a walk, but I can carry you for some of it if you need me to. There's a short-cut."

"Carry me? Perhaps we should just find a cab."

He smiled. "No, a cab won't be necessary. Look, when you are in a shock like this, it helps to have some sugar." From her bureau he took a box of pastilles, and offered it to her. "Take five or six."

The tart chalky candies crunched between her teeth. "Do we have to go now? I'd like to just sit for a moment."

He pulled her onto the divan and then to his shoulder. Into his arms he folded her, and her heart gave a great leap in her breast. Down her neck he grazed, whispering her name like an incantation.

My stomach is flapping like a wild bird trapped in a cage, she thought. I've seen little birds do that. They're so anxious to get out of their cages, and when they do, they bang themselves against windows and walls in terror. He says he won't take advantage of me. I'll have to trust him, but do I want to? Perhaps I'm the one who can't be trusted. To stay the night with a man means only one thing, doesn't it?

Oh, that's so lovely, when he kisses the side of my face and my ear like that. Why does he wait? He doesn't move to take me, but he doesn't declare himself to me, either. Instead, we float in this half-world of shadowed kisses and warm armored embraces, protected by coats and corsets and our own shyness.

Alberich broke off his exploration of her neck and held her for a long moment, rocking her against his body with slight slanted movements. She reached up under his evening coat and felt his fine brocaded vest, then nestled into the warmth under his jacket, stirring up coals which needed only slightly more tinder to send into a blaze.

He sighed heavily as if under some weighty burden, and broke off the embrace as if to say, not yet, little one, not yet. "Shall we go?" he said in a thick voice. "I could use the cool air."

"I'll get my wrap," Kristina said.

He moved over towards the old gilt mirror. "That won't be necessary." Then, to her amazement, he touched the mirror in a few spots around its frame, and it slid to the side. Cool damp air wafted into the room. He stepped into the darkness behind the mirror, and held out his hand to her.

Kristina shook a little with fear and excitement. "I didn't know that was there." Into the darkness she followed him, and her boots crunched on a little gravel in the corridor. He turned to swing the mirror shut behind her, and he looked ghostly in the dim gas lights of the narrow stone hall.

Down the dusky corridor they went, and she clung to him like a child. He draped over her shoulders his evening cloak of soft heavy wool, and it lay upon her like his arms. They came to a fork in the corridor and Alberich turned into an even darker passage. A waft of cold wet air came up, and Kristina hung back.

"Where are we going?"

"Down, down, and down. The passage is rough in spots. Would you like me to carry you?"

Kristina held up her arms like a little girl, and he lifted her against his broad body. Tiny specks of blue gaslight left the passage mostly in obscurity. He swayed a little as he walked and she snuggled in. "Cling tightly," he said. "Cling tightly, as it makes it easier to carry you." She squeezed around his shoulders as hard as she could, and with her ear pressed up against his collar, heard deep within the rapid, powerful strokes of his heart.

She put her face onto his shoulder and closed her eyes, full of comfort. I'm so tired, she thought as she rocked, and this feels so good, almost as good as horseback riding. He wants to carry me, there's no other reason, because we must be on a flat stone floor now. I can hear his boots click. He must live a long way down, but how can that be? No one lives down here. She momentarily opened her eyes as they passed through a chain of little rooms linked together like beads on a string, one opening into the other. When they came into a wide room like a cathedral with a tall vaulted ceiling, she shivered closer to him, chilled by the touch of cold air.

"It won't be long now," he said. He held her as if daring someone to try and wrest her from his arms. One hand pulled her up under the thighs, and the other went around her waist almost up to the breast. His footsteps echoed off the high vaulted ceiling.

She could feel his heart beat more rapidly now. I'm not a small girl, she thought. This has to be a lot of work for him. There should be an old troll king at the far end of this room, sitting on a raised dais, challenging us as we enter his kingdom. But this is Alberich's kingdom we enter. How strange to live down here in the mysterious dark.

At the end of the cathedral-like room he sat her down, breathing heavily, and said, "Time to walk again." Kristina peered down a long flight of stone steps that twisted away, and her legs wobbled from stiff unsteadiness. At the bottom of the steps they passed through an archway, and she stared, speechless at the stone shoreline of a vast lake that flowed off into passages and corridors from every direction. The high arched ceilings above disappeared into dark green gloom, but the walls themselves shone brightly from the flickering lamps, and their tiny brightnesses wavered blue on the green water.

Around the lake was a small walkway of narrow stone. "This is the trickiest part," he said. "Are you able? I don't want you to fall in."

"I think so. The sugar trick worked." The cool green expanse of the pool sat silently, as if something from deep inside was watching them. "It's incredible. I had heard there was a lake down here, but I had no idea."

He picked his way carefully around the water on a path about a meter wide, roughly two meters above the surface of the water, with no ledge or rail, and she followed behind, holding tightly to his hand.

"How deep is it?" Kristina asked, fascinated by that expanse of vaguely shining green water.

"I don't know."

"But I thought you worked on it."

"I didn't build this lake. It was part of the old Roman baths. I'd estimate it to be about two or three meters. However, in some places it's deeper than it looks," and there was a strange quality in his voice. "Don't ever go into it. Believe me."

Kristina looked out apprehensively over the water, expecting to see some ripple or perhaps even a fin break through its glossy surface, but nothing broke its calm. They stepped off onto a shore of rough unshaped stone, in front of what appeared to be a blank cave wall. Kristina said, "You live here? But where?"

"Watch," he said, and reached into a crack like so many others on that rock face. A wide stone door slid open, its rough face carefully made to appear as bare unfinished stone. A door opened in the stone. Inside stretched a passageway about four meters long, and at the end was a wooden door. "After you."

She opened the door and blinked into a large, high-ceilinged room in which a flickering yellow fire blazed. It was surprisingly warm for so far underground. One big table was piled high with woodworking tools, knives, balls of string, pieces of cane and cork, and pans of water with cane soaking in them. A large wooden shelf had dozens of large woodwind reeds drying on it. Slabs of hardwood rested in vertical stacks against the wall. Odd scraps and assortments of metal and wires lay on a second table, along with pliers, cutting tools, snips. Another table was covered with odd gears and valves, as well as lengths of copper pipe or tubing. One book-filled shelf and another stuffed with tools lined the walls, and in the corner away from the gas fire stood a large harmonium covered with sheet music and scribbled staff paper.

A shabby and worn horsehair couch half-covered with thick coverlets, and an overstuffed armchair in blue damask nestled before the fire. A deep wine wool rug covered the stone floor in between the couch and fire, but the floor was otherwise bare.

Three doors, all closed, spread off from this big hexagonal space.

"You live here," Kristina said, and he waved his hand around.

"Live, work, everything. But sit," and he pulled the armchair aside for her. "I'd like to offer you something, but I don't have much. Jam and bread? With tea, perhaps?"

"I'd like that," and suddenly she noticed how hungry she was. "May I help?"

"Come keep me company, if you wish," he answered, and hung up his evening jacket and vest on a peg. They went into a little narrow galley kitchen, where he put on water to boil, and cut bread.

"So you do your own cooking?"

"I keep a very simple house. As you can see, there's not much here. It's not like I would have a servant come down to the cellars anyway."

He cleared the end of one of the work tables and set down heavy white china. "Lingonberry jam," she exclaimed, when he brought out a jar full of jellied red berries. "How did you know I liked it?"

"I presumed upon your nationality when I bought it a few weeks ago."

"A few weeks? Why wait so long to invite me to tea?"

Spreading jam, not looking up, he said, "I wasn't sure if you would come, or if it would be proper."

"I suppose it isn't." Thinking of Etienne, she said, "There are some men I couldn't trust on the Plaza steps at high noon. With you, though, it's different."

He shifted, as if a little affronted. "I have a man's temptations, after all. If women are restricted, and I have seen them far more enclosed than here in Paris, it's generally to keep them safe from men."

There didn't seem to be a quick rejoinder for that, so she spread jam on her bread. "What happened tonight with the chandelier, Alberich? You seemed to know exactly where to go, what to do. Everyone else just stood there gaping."

"I've been trying to puzzle out what happened myself. One of the gasoliers in the chandelier could have malfunctioned, letting in too much air. Alternately, a piece of the aperture could have broken off, allowing too much gas to come in. Another possibility is that a pressure relief valve failed, again, resulting in too much gas. Without examining it, it's impossible to tell. I'm not putting you to sleep, am I? Most people aren't interested in the intricacies of the gas system."

She shook her head, so he went on.

"In any case, something caused a flame-up. It's not as dangerous as the case where the gas-line is blocked, or if for some reason the flame goes out but gas continues to come out of the line. That's when theaters go up in fireballs."

"I know," she said. "Theaters burn down all the time. I saw what was left after the fire at the Opera Italien. It was a blackened hulk, when it was all over. We were lucky."

"Luckier than you know. The real danger tonight was that if a flame like that had gone on much longer than it did, the cables that hold the counterweights could have burned through. Then the whole chandelier might well have come crashing down. Then the gas line would have snapped, gas would have filled the auditorium, and ..."

"Don't say anymore. It's a terrifying thought." She saw in her mind the enormous crystal and brass structure plummeting into the audience, like Lucifer thrown out of heaven_. _

"Your face is so white. Sorry to have frightened you, but that's the risk of a system like that. The worst tonight was broken glass, even that was bad enough. As I recall, there was some trouble with the jeweler's studio that crafted the chandelier. Changing the metal specification would have required the hooks to have been thicker than they were, and of a slightly different color. The designer thought it spoiled the look."

"Not that anyone could see that from twenty meters below."

"Not that anyone thought of how a human face looks after it's had broken glass and red-hot metal showered down upon it," he said, and he looked angry. "I knew we'd installed a series of shut-off valves up the line, all the way to the roof. I told the inspectors in my final technical documents that for every performance, a fireman should be stationed at the upper level cutoff valve for this very reason, to shut the gas off if needed. Are you sure this interests you?"

"Alberich, you saved our lives tonight. Of course I'm interested in how you managed to do it."

"Very well, then. Needless to say, a series of valves was deemed 'too expensive.' They'll put a man in the sewers to run the 'boat' that prevents sewer buildups, or they'll put men with sandbags on a levee, but somehow they don't understand that gas flows, too, that pipes are just another form of channel, and men are needed to control the flow from one point to another. Coal gas doesn't just magically appear in one place or disappear from another. It has to be brought into a building and distributed throughout. It almost has a will of its own, and that will can be very, very dangerous."

"Everyone wants the lights to come on, but no one wants to think how they got on in the first place."

"You understand it perfectly," he said. "I knew where the valves were, because I'd designed and installed them. It was getting up to the shut-off that was tricky."

"Tricky?"

"I had to get from the 'god section' up to the third story of the flies in under a few minutes. I knew where the valve was, and that there should be a wrench on a hook nearby. I did knock two men over when they tried to stop me. I hope one or the other of them doesn't take a swing at me if they see me again. Anyway, I'm not a praying man, but there were two things I prayed for tonight. The first was that some careless workman hadn't moved that wrench, and that I could prevent anything from happening to you."

"I think they should give you some kind of reward."

"If I show my face in the auditorium again, before you know it everyone will want to talk to the man who 'saved the theater,' and I can't have that." He looked her intently. "The newspapers will be all over it tomorrow anyway."

"You saved hundreds of people tonight."

"Two days from now, Paris will forget all about it."

"Nonsense. You were splendid tonight. But I am going to fall asleep, and not because of your story. It's just that there's been so much."

"Forgive me. I know I shouldn't have bored you with all that. Sit, while I get the tea things."

"While I have a spark of life left in me, let me help."

"You're my guest, not a scullery maid."

Kristina laughed. "Four hands are better than two, and the sooner we're done, the sooner we get to bed." She stopped, furiously blushing. "It's my French. Even after all these years of speaking it, once in a while something just flies out on its own."

"There are so many opportunities to make that kind of mistake in French," he said with a little smile. "My kitchen isn't much."

"It's wonderful. It's like in a story, like the Hall of the Mountain King under the hill. And the managers let you live here?"

"The managers don't know. I suppose if they caught me, the best outcome would be that I'd get thrown out. I don't want to imagine the worst."

"Then I won't tell anyone. What harm are you doing, anyway, other than spiriting away a little gas and water? Besides, I would say they owed you an enormous debt after tonight."

"Here, let me wash." He went over the dishes in wide caressing sweeps, so that she wished that she was under the sponge and the sharp-smelling lye soap, feeling the cleansing caress of those hands. Neither said much in that close little room full of pipes and fixtures and shelves, with the sense hanging between them of something already decided but still unspoken.

After they finished he said, "You can sleep in here," and opened the large left-most door. The sparsely-furnished, small room had only a wardrobe, a wooden chair, and a low wooden bed. From the wardrobe he pulled a large thick cotton robe, and from under the pillow a nightshirt. "It's the only one I have. The other one's at the laundress's."

"You have a laundress?" She put her hand over her mouth, to suppress a giggle.

"Why shouldn't I have a laundress? Do you think I wash my shirts in the lake?"

"Oh, no, of course not," she stammered, embarrassed.

He went on, "That door leads to the bathroom, and both bathroom doors lock." With that, he left her in his little cell of a room.

An unlit candle sat in a niche on the wall, even though the gaslight flickered. Kristina took a folded rag off the washstand and cleaned her face, running fingers through her hair as best she could, for she had no comb. There was no lock on the bedroom door, and she wondered what she would do if he came in. Fight, scream, and protect my virtue, she said to herself. But somehow the time for that seems long past. Anyway, I don't think he'll come in. If he comes in, he'll never leave. I'll never leave, either. But he has to say it first. I want to hear him say it.

The nightshirt covered her like a tent, so that its folds fell almost to the floor. The seams were held together with tiny hand-stitches so small they were almost invisible. Around the hems ran little loops of scalloped crochet work. The sleeves fell over her hands, so she rolled them up. It occurred to her that someone had spent a great deal of time making this shirt. The arms were long, even for Alberich. Does he have a tailor, she wondered. Would a tailor add crochet like that, so finely done? A woman must have made it. Perhaps his mother made it for his father. That must be it, as the style is so old-fashioned.

She grabbed a large handful of the soft linen and breathed in deeply. The warm dizzying scent flew in two directions, up to her head and in a warm sluice right down to her legs. It smelled of his hair, his warmth, his mouth. It was like having his skin on her, all over her, inside of her. And I was wondering about him assaulting my virtue? she thought. This bed isn't that small. We would both fit. She hugged his nightshirt all around, and ran her hands up and down over her soft skin under what felt like a skin of his own, so soft was the linen, skin against skin, and she trembled with desire.

Please come in to say goodnight, she beseeched him silently through the door, through the wall. This floor is so cold. Stone feels like ice under the feet, and there's no rug. Why is there no rug? Oh, please come in and we'll warm our feet together. But he didn't come in, and so she turned down the thin coverlet and crawled into bed. After the warmth of the front room, it was like sliding into a snowbank.

She shook with cold in between the frigid sheets. The bed's wooden planks dug into her back like bones. She turned and twisted, so that the mattress pad lumped up under her shoulders. It's damp in here, she thought, and the air smells musty, too. Not the pillow, though. The pillow smells like him.

The linen sheets were woven with a cross-weave which ran so smoothly under her fingers that it might as well have been made of silk. He's between these sheets every night, she thought. He built this bed, I know, and made it long so that he could fully stretch out his legs. She scissored hers back and forth, squeezing her thighs together, imagining her own legs entwined with his, one sliding over another.

She reached down to grab her restless legs, as if seizing them could stop the desire welling up now like a stream in flood. Stop this, she told herself. You have to stop this. Try to sleep. Oh, it's hopeless. Maybe he can have his bed after all, and I'll take the couch.

Kristina slid out of bed. On a peg hung the white robe of soft-looped cotton. It draped around her like a tent, but it was warm. Stealthily she opened the bedroom door. Alberich sat in the armchair by the fire, not reading, just resting with his eyes closed, his hand over his face. A dark shadow of beard covered his chin, making his cheek look hollow. She stepped as quietly as she could, but his eyes opened at once and he looked up with a quizzical expression.

"I'm lonely," she said, not wanting to come fully into the room. "Can I sleep on the couch?"

His stockings had blue stripes woven into them. They covered long and broad feet, with toes outlined through the thin fabric. His maroon suspenders hung around his waist. "Come over to the couch, by the fire. You must be cold." He wrapped the worn coverlet around her, tucking in her feet. "The robe becomes you."

"It's wonderful, like a suit of armor. It must weigh five kilos."

"Not quite, I should think. It was my father's. It's Turkish cotton, woven into all those little loops."

He sat so dark and still against the firelight. She asked, "Was the nightshirt your father's too?"

"It was." He picked out another quilt and laid it over the first. "There. That should keep you warm enough," and he headed towards the bedroom.

"Stay if you want," Kristina said softly. "You looked so peaceful there when I came in. I don't mind. Unless you want to go."

He pulled the ottoman up under his feet, and his throat moved in a long deep swallow.

"I trust you," she said, and he looked away into the fire, his face unreadable, but his hands trembling, as if he were trying to catch hold of some deep emotion. For a long moment they sat in silence, looking at the fire together. She reached over and caressed his stockinged foot, thick and muscular. He shuddered and his foot jerked. "That tickles."

"Sorry," she said, and grasped his feet in both hands, massaging harder. As she rubbed she thought, Feet are like hands in so many ways, but different. Thicker, stronger, they're made to carry all our weight, and sometimes another's besides. Such strong feet, I can barely feel the bones through the muscle. His toes are like fingers. I wonder if he can pick coins up with them. What a foolish thing to think, especially about someone so serious. There are no callouses on his feet, that means his boots must fit perfectly. His foot's so relaxed now. That's the key to keep from tickling, to keep the touch firm and steady, and not too light.

"My turn," he said after awhile. "Bring them over here." He took her bare feet and rested them on his thighs. "So cold they are," he said as he rubbed them with his warm, rough hands. "It can get drafty down here. I must be used to it, as I scarcely notice it anymore."

"It's better. Your hands feel wonderful," and she wanted him to go on forever. It's as if he is weaving a net, she mused. He's entwining us, hands and mouths and lips, and what else will he entwine?

"'How beautiful are thy feet with shoes, oh prince's daughter,'" he said, "and without them, too. I believe they're finally changing from ice to flesh."

"Your hands could melt the castle of the Snow Queen herself." In the firelight his face wasn't the white cratered moon she remembered when they rode through the Bois. Instead it was now the golden crevassed moon of autumn, rich and full of life.

"It's not the Snow Queen's castle I want to melt, but her heart," he said in that same caressing tone, inviting her the way the cello invites the violin to follow it through tunnels of melody.

The breath stopped in her chest. Every coy trick of flirtation, every flounce, every toss of the curls, every flip of the fan, every drop of the handkerchief passed through her mind like a parade of marionettes made of cheap tinsel and twine. They all pantomimed the proper actions of a respectable young lady. "Yank your feet away from him; play the coquette," they seemed to say.

If I were truly a lady, she thought, I wouldn't be here at all. Alberich would be long gone, with a slapped face the pay for his invitation. Oh, I can't be bothered. He holds my feet in his hands as earlier he held all our lives, tender and caressing, and yet full of strength. Of course he doesn't want to talk to the police, or put himself forward. They're so stupid, they'd probably accuse him of starting the fire himself. He warms my feet to life, but talks of my heart. Oh, commander of that heart, I don't care what other women do or think. I won't play the coquette again, not with you.

"You've already melted my heart," she said. He looked away, deeply flushed. Still, he held onto her feet as if they were the most sensitive, breakable things he had ever touched. Then tucking her feet back under the coverlet, he said, "Let me bid you good-night, Kristina. Thank you for coming to my house."

Crushed with disappointment, she nodded.

He moved slowly towards his room like a reluctant horse led by a halter. The flames reflected on the brass fireplace screen reminded her for a moment of the hot glowing shards which had flown across the auditorium. Inside her a great protest welled up. You can't go, not just like that. I can't stay here alone without you. Something's happened, don't you feel it? A space has opened up and there's a world inside it, don't you feel it? Don't you want to go there?

Then she had an idea. Maybe he wouldn't have to leave after all. "Wait," she said, not caring if she sounded mad or reckless. The same wild impulse which made her climb over the balustrade into Box 17 seized her now. "There's something … something Anneke told me about. Something that they did in Norway when she was young."

He stopped, interested. His suspenders dangling at his waist made him look vulnerable.

"The young men and women who were, uh, more than friends, would want to spend time together. Nights in the north could be very long; firewood was scarce, and whale oil for the lamps was very dear. So they'd go to bed together. No, not like that. They kept their clothes on, at least the man did. Sometimes the mother of the house would actually sew the man up in a blanket, or wrap him up in one and pin it. Sometimes the family had a board padded with batting and fabric that would lay between them. The couple wasn't supposed to reach across it."

"Extraordinary," he said, trying to keep his reddening face under control.

"The two of them would lie awake and talk, and then they'd sleep. Of course, it's a different circumstance, since we're in your home, and Anneke's not here. Although I'm not sure even Anneke would think of bundling as something people would do in Paris."

"So did Mme. Sibelius do this herself?" he asked, fighting down a smile.

"I think she might have, although I never asked directly. But she made a point to tell me that with the Professor, no, never. He was the son of a pastor, and the clergy didn't approve. Every so often they'd have sermons against it, Anneke said, but it didn't matter to the farm people. Their attitude was that if the ministers didn't want their daughters to bundle, let the Church buy the oil for the lamps."

The smile won out, and he laughed.

"It showed trust," Kristina finished.

"What should I do?"

Happiness bubbled up inside her. He was going to do it, and didn't think her deranged after all. "Take this big coverlet. I'll take this extra one for myself. We'll go into the bedroom and I'll wrap you in it. I don't have any pins, though."

"I have some. I'll get them."

Kristina arranged the coverlet so that it spread over the bed and hung a little over the far side, away from where he would lie. He came back with four large safety-pins. "You lie down on the spread," she said. "Now I wrap the flap around you, so you're cocooned in there. No, your hands don't get to come out."

"But yours do."

"Take it up with God, who made men and women different. Your hands stay inside."

I must be mad, entirely mad, she thought, as she pinned Alberich into the coverlet. Even the farmers knew how this ended up half the time, with an early wedding and a seven-month's child, on paper at least. Look, he's shaking, from laughter or excitement, I can't tell which. I know why I'm shaking, and it's not just from the cold. She could scarcely hold the pins, but she finally managed to get him secured in.

He said, "It's strange, it makes a man feel helpless."

"I think that's the idea," Kristina said as she climbed into bed next to him. She wrapped herself in the second coverlet, tucking the excess in between them as an added precaution. "You remind me of one of those mummies in the Louvre."

"I'm at your mercy," he said, rolling over onto his side to face her.

Feeling bold, she ran her hands through his long dark hair and talked to him silently, so only she could hear. Oh, it's lovely when your eyes close like that. That's right, lean back so I can rub your head all the way around. You like it when I scratch a little, don't you? You feel helpless? I'm the one who should feel helpless. I'm like the archway of Rome, all wide open like that painting in the Louvre. In you march with your troops, ravaging me with your half-open mouth and closed eyes, with the smell of your hair, my dark commander, my elf-king.

Then the yawns came, first one, then another, and she nestled down as close to him as she could, breathing in the smoky damp richness of his coverlet and his hair. Fire, broken glass, screams, blood, all sank under slow waves of warmth, and she drifted effortlessly away as a soft blanket of dark came down. Then she heard him say, "I'll miss not seeing any operas anymore."

"What?" she said, drowsily. "Did you say something? I thought I heard you say you weren't going to see any more operas."

"I woke you, I'm sorry."

"That's all right." She snuggled up higher so that their faces almost touched. Sleep hung over her like gauze, and his mouth was so close.

"First I lost my box, and now I'll be lucky if I can get the rest of my work done here. If I show my face in the orchestra, before you know it everyone will want to talk to the man who 'saved the theater,' and I can't have that."

"Why wouldn't you want to talk to them?"

"You start the day a hero, but by sunset Paris forgets all about you. I prefer to keep my home, and my privacy. I will miss the box, though."

Snuggling up and as close to him as she could, she whispered, "I don't think Mme. Avenelle would allow you to give it up. She thinks you're the spirit of the theater, and it's unlucky to offend someone like that. But now I can't keep my eyes open. Sing something to me. Sing me to sleep."

"I know just the thing," he said in a whisper. "It's an Italian lullaby called 'Basket of dreams.' Cassinelli taught it to me." The melodic song reminded her of Lorello's long-drawn out vowels; reminded her of resting on Lorello's heft-slabbed chest as he carried her through the corridors of the theater as easily as he would carry one of his little daughters.

On and on it went, or perhaps he just repeated the verses. Kristina settled down into the slow waves of sleep which lapped over her. When Alberich was done, she moved her mouth over onto his and held it there between her lips, not kissing exactly, but resting, so that their breath mingled in the air. He started to lightly snore. She fell asleep breathing in the rich scent of his hair.

(_Continued_...)


	19. Awakenings

**Chapter 19: Awakenings**

A dream swept Kristina to and fro with a rustle of wind. Cold air flew out of the leaden, heavy sky and raced up her dress. She stood on a cliff, and beneath her was spread a vast gorge. Leaves of white and cream and brown fluttered up and down, whipped about by torrents of wind.

I'm so cold, she thought. Can't I get out of this wind? What are those things moving around? They can't be leaves, they're too large.

The flapping forms pursued each other like hawks diving for their prey. Two breezed past her, almost knocking her off her rocky perch, and she was suddenly frightened. They were people, some fragile in their nakedness, others dressed in long gowns which billowed like sails. Their hair buoyed them up in the wind, like wings keeping them aloft. Down the figures spiraled in a great gravity well: down and down again, then spewed from the top, wrenched by the wind.

One couple caught her eye as they swept past, clinging to one another. A buffet of wind sheared them apart, and clawing, desperate, they fought the currents to clutch each other again. The frantic oscillations of their bitter joinings and partings brought them slowly closer to Kristina.

The girl was beautiful and very thin, her arms like sticks. The wind tossed her long curly brown hair into a frizzy wild mat, and her ragged long gown of gossamer silk glimmered with beads, or jewels. The man was tall, long, and mostly black in his silk suit, arms and legs impossibly thin like a spider's.

Kristina couldn't see his face in the tumbling crowd, and when the whirling people cleared, his tattered black cloak flew up to conceal it. When he brushed close to Kristina his cloak flew aside, and she almost shrieked, because his eyes burned like coals and his face was twisted up with desire, so that it almost looked monstrous. He swam across the swells of the air and grasped the jeweled-gowned girl for a brief moment, pulling her to his breast as they sailed upwards, and then another blast of wind blew them apart.

The terror, the cold, the sadness overwhelmed Kristina, and she started to cry. A heavy, shaggy arm pulled her gently in towards a circle of comforting warmth. It was the _Julbock_, and she pulled back a bit from fear. The red ribbons on his straw goat's head mask tumbled about every which way in the wind. Then a great gust came up, and blew the straw horned helmet away. A hairy, wild man grinned at her.

"Who are they?" Kristina asked, as he wrapped her in his shaggy cloak. He didn't press his hot, heavy desire up against her as he had before at Yuletide, and his bright blue eyes were kind. She ran her hands up under his cloak, warming them on his plump, strong body.

"Didn't you pay attention in school?" he chided in a deep bass. "Or did they skip Dante?"

"Professor Sibelius made me read it," Kristina said. "Were they Paolo and Francesca?"

"No," he said, "but a pair like them. A pair who wouldn't listen."

"Wouldn't listen to what?"

"To each other. To themselves."

"She looks like an actress or a singer. Who is she?"

"Your sister," he said, his voice fading in the rush of wind. "Remember her, but don't forget her fate. Or you will follow it."

Kristina's hands and body were warm but her feet were still cold, and she tucked them up under his hairy cloak. His thighs were round and surprisingly hot. She tried to tell him, "I have no sister," but all of it started to fade. Soon nothing of the dream was left except a warm arm around her shoulder. A gentle hand rubbed and soothed her until everything went soft and dark once more.

Waking was as warm as if under a goose down cover. Sleepily she thought, What's that pillow cushioning my rump? Closer, oh, that's better. Naughty Julbock, don't poke like that. Her breast tingled, cupped by a pleasant palm, and she was too comfortable to move. Breath laced the back of her neck, delightful breath which went in and out with the rhythm of half-sleep.

This is such a lovely dream, she said to herself. I won't move, or I'll wake from it. Everything's so heavy with sleep in this honeyed dream. That's right, don't give all the attention to one. Move over and cup the other one, yes, like that. Such a tender hand, and such a heavy hot weight of arm across my side. How funny, that big pillow against my behind is moving now, little shifts back and forth.

Oh, that's the spot on my breast, so sensitive, yes, that's exactly right, it sends an ache right through me, but you know just when enough is enough, and not too much. Back over to the other one, we can't let either one feel left out, can we? I never knew my breasts were so full. When another hand holds them besides my own, when other fingers test their weight and softness, like now, they shift heavily onto the bed, shaking back and forth.

She had not thought the _Julbock_ would be so gentle. Then the hand was gone altogether, and Kristina squirmed a little in protest, feeling betrayed by the empty and suddenly cool air. The warm body behind her moved and shifted again. She felt his maleness up against her rump. It didn't frighten her, though, but instead drew her towards him. It was strange that instead of shaggy goat hair, his garment felt soft, like linen. Then, after that momentary cold vacancy, his arm once again came round against her. The same warm strokes played over her nipple, and his body pressed up as close to as thin linen would allow. Her belly flipped with little rollicking convulsions of delight. Oh, the things a man could do with one arm.He reached down and cuddled her waist, kneading the soft curves a few times before pulling her in closer. His light snoring sounded like the faint rattle of a train far away, over a wooden trestle bridge.

She rolled over into his arms, cheek resting on all that broad expanse of chest. There was his whole front, the slow sleepy strength, the round hills of muscle above the breast, the great broad ribs and beneath them the warm, living, breathing stomach. She pressed the little cushion around his middle back and forth. Just as she was about to reach further down, a soft mouth descended on her, and with a start Kristina knew at once that this was no dream. This was real. This was happening.

Alberich's mouth came down over her face. He missed her mouth and brushed over her chin, then went back to his light snores. His full, aroused body pressed against her rhythmically but slowly, as if in dream himself.

He's asleep, she realized. He doesn't know he's doing this. He'll be horrified and pull away when he wakes up, so I'm going to lie here still as possible in this glowing nest of chest, pretending to sleep as well. When I learned to faint on stage, I found that stiffening up made me more likely to get hurt. Arms, legs, go limp as possible, like a jellyfish on the beach. Breathe in time, in and out.

It was impossible to lay there like that, though. His snoring tickled her ear. As if music suddenly stopped, or the wind had just changed direction, he went entirely still as well. He was awake too.

She cringed a little, not wanting to look at him, but not being able to let go of him either.

Then he said from deep within, like a man coming up from underwater, "Kristina, do you like children?"

Kristina put her hand on his belly, and he pushed himself up against her. She could feel him straining beneath the cloth. "I love children. Do you?"

"It's good that you like children," and his voice was wakening now, firming up, "because if we stay in this bed a minute longer, I am going to fill you with one."

A sword of desire cut right through Kristina and left the limp and quivering pieces stretched against his broad breast. He raised himself up, a dark brooding creature who loomed over her with hot focused appetite. His hair stood out like a blue-black mane around his thickly shadowed face. The heavy breath flew in and out of his full, open mouth.

A swirl of dread and excitement stirred through her as she thought, He's giving me a space to run through, before he falls on me with all his weight. He'll pin me to the bed, and not let me up until he's filled me with his seed. Like hot aspic, that ballerina said.

He pulled away from her. "Perhaps you have to answer nature's call," he said with low command.

"That's true." Still afraid, she took the hint and crawled out of bed. The stone floor was icy cold. His hot dark eyes followed her out of the room.

She locked the bathroom door, and breathed in and out in great gasps, as if she'd been underwater for a very long time_. _How do I get my clothes, she wondered. I can't go back in his room, not like this. Bundling only works when there's a mother to call the couple for rolls and coffee, before they even wake up, and a father and brothers with their fists at the ready. What was she thinking? She must have been mad, thinking four pins would hold a man.

Stealthily, she crept into the great room and found his heavy evening cloak hanging on a peg. Wrapping herself in it, she tiptoed back to his bedroom, only to find it empty. Since there weren't any bushes down here to duck behind, he must have gone out. After all, there was that big lake. Grabbing her clothes, she headed into the bathroom and quickly changed. She could surprise him. There had to be coffee in the kitchen somewhere. That would give her something to do, instead of sitting with her hands folded in her lap. She wouldn't have to face him when he came back.

There were coffee beans in a canister on a high shelf, with the little hand-grinder near it. While the water boiled, Kristina piled up her hair as best she could into a ragged mound held together by pins. The big outer door scraped open.

So it was the lake after all.

When Alberich finally entered the kitchen, it was to the smell of steaming coffee in thick white mugs, black and bitter. "You should have let me," he said. "You are my guest, after all. Would you like me to go out for fresh baguette?"

I don't want to be your guest, she thought, wishing he could hear directly what was in her heart. When I move around your kitchen, around your house, it's like moving through your body. In your bed, you were moments away from taking me. I don't want to be here on sufferance, instead, I want to belong. To belong to you.

The smell of the tarry pines of her childhood wafted to her on the cold air of memory. They promised an elusive mystery, one where a space in the mountain opened up like a body, wide enough into which she and Alberich could both crawl. But she simply said, "I like to be busy. Look, here are a few eggs. Let's have those."

"They're yesterday's. Are you sure you want them if they're not fresh?"

"It's so cool in here; I'm sure they're fine," she replied.

So he sliced the stiff baguette and soaked the pieces in egg for frying, while Kristina readied everything else. He worked quickly, deftly, but something about the slump of his shoulders showed that he was worried and distracted.

It was silent except for the little spatters of grease in the pan. He lifted a perfectly fried baguette slice, its little edges crinkled with dripping, and aimed it towards a plate.

"When we're married, you can do the cooking," she quipped, and he dropped the slice onto the floor. Not looking at her, he wiped the polished stone carefully and said, "Did you ever step on grease on stone? You can crack your head like an eggshell." His upper face flared as if he wore a red mask.

It was at that point she knew that he was in love with her, but that he was full of pride, and wouldn't give in to let her know. It was why they looked at each other as if they had between them a huge and marvelous present that they both feared to open, so that all they would do was stare at the wrapping and the bow. Then she laughed to herself, Actually that's not true. We started on the wrapping this morning, but then he stopped.

Alberich slid a few slices of fried bread onto her plate and silently handed over the remaining lingonberry jam. "I want children, like most men. But not the way one would have come about this morning. But a child should have a name."

Her face hot and embarrassed, she said, "I'm sorry, Alberich. It was a stupid idea on my part, to have us try and sleep together like that. It's like taking a torch into the woods in midsummer, then acting surprised when there's a fire."

"You were cold and frightened, and you needed me. I'm the one who should offer you an apology, for making so free with you."

"Don't. The waking was sweet, very sweet."

He got up, embarrassed, and brought more coffee. "It's well-made," he said. "Thank you."

Kristina sensed the opportunity dangling before her, and decided to seize it. "Most men say they want sons. But not many say they are fond of children, and want them for their own sake."

"I always imagined a houseful of children and a wife, but instead I live down here," and he looked away, stricken.

"Why? Why do you live down here?"

He stiffened, as if deciding what to say. "Alphonse died shortly before I got the subcontract to install the electric lines throughout the Eclectic Theater. He was ill for only a few days, and I barely got to Rennes before he was gone. The funeral Mass was said at the Rennes cathedral, and it was almost empty except for the other stonemasons who had known him from the restoration projects before we went to Turkey. Most of the others had already died, anyway.

"Normally I'm not sociable, but I hated that my father died virtually unmourned. The few others there didn't know who I was, and I had to introduce myself to all of them. I got out of there as quickly as I decently could. I still miss him, Kristina. When I began the project here, there were a dozen times a day I wanted to ask him something, but he wasn't here. I couldn't shake the sadness.

"Then someone else died," and here he looked away, not saying anything more for a long few seconds. "And it is cool down here throughout the Parisian summers."

"It's all right. You can tell me. I know there's more to it than that."

He kept his eyes averted. "There was a woman. I knew her for two years, and then she died."

"Did you love her?" she asked, fearing to presume, but desperate to know.

"No, I wouldn't call it love."

"She was your mistress, then."

"I shouldn't even be telling you."

"But you must have cared for her, or you wouldn't have felt such a loss when she died."

"She was kind to me, generous," he said.

Then Kristina blushed a little with shame, because while she sheltered under Alberich like a horse under a blind in a rainstorm, it had not occurred to her to ask under what wings of protection he sheltered. Abashed, she said, "I'm sorry. Death is a terrible thing. My father was haunted by it, which is why he wrote the Lazarus cantata."

He took her hand, and that gesture summed up all of their touches to that point, whole days of pliant fingers wrapped around each other, of hands that embraced or wandered up a broad strong back, hands that flew across the keyboard and then nestled in her hair, hands that dallied under a rough blanket on a cold night in an open-air carriage, that cupped her breasts and warmed them in the cold morning.

He rose suddenly, making his plate clatter. "Time to clear up."

She wasn't to be put off. "Tell me what you meant last night about not being able to see the operas anymore. I'm sorry if I didn't hear you out before we slept. I was so tired. Look, I'll come help, and we can talk."

He shrugged, as if reluctant to speak. "First I lost my box, and now, if I show my face in the orchestra, or anywhere else in the theater for that matter, before you know it everyone will want to talk to the man who 'saved the theater,' and I can't have that."

"Why wouldn't you want to talk to them?"

"I prefer to keep my home, and my privacy. Besides, there's my work. You saw the mess out there? It doesn't look like much now, but it's going to be a harmonium for the Anglicans by Ash Wednesday. There are less than a hundred of them in Paris, but they'll have only the best. It's probably the finest instrument I've made so far. If I have to move, I won't finish it in time, and I need the money. So you understand why I have to stay out of sight." He sighed and then said, "I do miss the opera box, though."

"About that box. How did you get it in the first place? Only the wealthiest patrons have box seats. People wait for someone to die before they can get one." She remembered what the ballet girls screamed when he took to the stage and climbed with such rapid agility up the catwalk to the flies.

"You don't know?"

There sat an ordinary man, wiping egg crackles out of a skillet, who told her he wanted a wife and children, who missed his father, who squatted in rooms stories below the theater. Then the memory of that full and flushed mouth swept over her again. Not ordinary. Not ordinary at all. "The Ghost's lady," she said in wonder. "That's what the box-keeper called me, and I thought she was addled. Alberich, why didn't you tell me, instead of letting me look stupid in front of Mme. Avenelle?"

"I never told you anything untrue."

"You didn't come out and tell me."

"No, I didn't."

"So how did you get such a calling?"

He sighed and hung up a towel. "It started as a joke, really. I sat on top of the highest box one day, listening to a terrible rehearsal of _La Prophete_. They tried to bring the black gelding up, the one that had been donated, and he caused one disturbance after another onstage. Directly below me the managers watched, so I thought to amuse myself at their expense. I leaned over the top, and in a stage whisper told them, 'I can make that horse calm down.' They of course became very disturbed, saying, 'Who's that?' and so on.

"I said, 'I'm the ghost who haunts this theater. I'll settle the horse and bring you all sorts of luck besides, but you must give me a box of my own.' "

"How were you going to make the horse calm down?" Kristina asked, amused in spite of herself.

"I had no idea. I certainly had no skill at remote animal magnetism with horses. Either the horse would calm down, or it wouldn't. Amazingly, the horse immediately started to behave, stepping in time as if he knew exactly what I wanted him to do. The managers called out to the animal handlers, 'What did you just do then?' 'Nothing,' they said. "It was as if someone just spoke into his ear.'

"There was a lot of whispering and consternation beneath me that I couldn't hear. So I said, louder, 'See what I can do? Work with me and I'll bring you luck. You'll have so many tickets sold you won't know what to think. And you had better keep that horse, as I like him.' I worried because it took a lot of training to make a good stage horse, and if it didn't work out, they'd stick him behind a carriage at best, or send him to the renderer's at worst. It turned out that the black gelding's useless for the stage, but they keep him anyway to turn the gears. I've felt slightly guilty about that, as if they're afraid to get rid of him."

"He's the horse you take out riding every so often."'

Surprised, he looked up. "You know about that?"

"Mme. Avenelle told me. She seems to think herself a great expert on all your doings."

"Ah, Mme. Avenelle."

"She called me 'the ghost's lady.' "

"Come here, Kristina," he said softly. "I have something to tell you." When she came up close to him, breast to belly, belly to groin, he bent his head down and whispered into her ear, "She was right."

Yes, she was the ghost's lady, and it took everything she had to not rush with abandon into that unknown country of his body.Playfully she said,"Do ghosts' ladies have little ghost children?"

"Dozens," he said, kissing her softly over the forehead and eyebrows. He breathed hard as he moved away from her, and went on, "I never thought they would believe me so easily. Before I knew it, Box 17 was never sold, and I built a little door to come in and out, behind a panel linking to the ventilation shaft. I hid it behind a panel and sat back like a lord in my box, half-obscured by the curtain and the dim light, as I never used candles. No one said anything.

"Then one day I lost a ten-franc coin. I assumed that it fell out of my pocket in the box. I went back and looked all over for it, but it mystified me as to where it had gone. The next evening I happened to be sitting in the box, and during intermission, someone tried the door. I dove behind one of the curtains and in walked Mme. Avenelle. She began to speak to me as if I were right there in the room with her, thanking me for my 'gift' of ten francs, telling me that whatever I wanted I had only to ask, and she would obtain it for me. That mystery was solved, at least.

"In a soft voice I told her that all I asked was that she keep the box dusted as she would any other, and that if she kept people out of it, I would tip her. I told her that unless she was cleaning the box she should stay out, especially during intermission, as I valued my privacy. Sometimes it amused me to sit behind the panel while she dusted, because she would talk to me quite naturally as if I could hear her. I didn't answer her back, but it didn't matter, and she turned into a veritable fountain of theater gossip, especially as it concerned the ballet corps and the shenanigans of the managers."

"I didn't think you had such wickedness in you." Kristina tried to sound stern, but inside she silently laughed.

"Do you think it was wicked? Because telling you does make me feel ashamed."

"If you feel ashamed to tell me something, then there's your answer. You'll have to give the salary back, you know."

"Salary?" he said blankly. "What salary?"

"What salary? Once I met Mme. Avenelle outside Box 17, and she was carrying an envelope full of franc notes in her apron pocket. She told me it was 'the ghost's salary.' She said she left it on the ledge in the box."

"Did she now? I think Mme. Avenelle might be exploiting the situation for her own benefit. I've certainly never seen any envelope full of money anywhere in that box. What is my vaunted salary supposed to be, by the way?"

"One hundred seventy five francs a month, and most likely it goes right into Mme. Avenelle's pocket."

"I've sold myself rather cheaply. Perhaps I should try to get far more. After all, virtually every performance sells splendidly, and Friday nights have been filled solid for months. I'd say I'm keeping to my end of the bargain."

"There's no more salary under the new regime, I would expect. They're a remarkably cheap lot."

"Which could account for Mme. Avenelle's poor disposition over these past few months, and the shocking profusion of dust balls under the chairs and in corners. Perhaps she needs a bit of a spooking."

"Don't!" Kristina said sharply. "You shouldn't joke about these things. Every theater does have a ghost, you know, and you really don't want to make him angry. He's tolerated you impersonating him, for reasons of his own, I'm sure. But now the joke's served its purpose, whatever it was."

"I did use to let myself be seen by the ballet girls," he admitted, somewhat abashed. "They would lurk about in the level right below the stage and wander among the set pieces, calling out, 'Monsieur Ghost! Monsieur Ghost!'" He imitated their soft, squealing voices so precisely that Kristina laughed in spite of herself. It sounded as if one particularly reedy and squeaky one were right there in the little kitchen with them. "Then I would let them get a glimpse of me before slipping into a ventilation shaft or hidden door, and I'd listen to them run up and down the corridor all in a flutter."

Kristina tried to look stern again. "It takes very little skill to amuse a ballet girl."

He laughed. Even though the kitchen was clean, they both lingered.

"I think every theater should give up a seat for its resident ghost," Kristina went on. "Just like when I grew up, and put a little bread and cream out for the _tomte_. Some people won't put out cream for the spirit of the farm, either. They think that's too extravagant, so they use the skimmed milk. I've always felt that if you put out the best, the best will be returned to you multiplied. But perhaps a box is a little extravagant. "

He said, "I only asked for the box after I saw you at your audition, and when I knew you'd signed a contract. I've seen you every time you've appeared on the stage since you've arrived. It's just that now I pay for the privilege, and it seems in more ways than one."

"Every time? I had no idea. Not that I can see up into the boxes, anyway."

"I remember. You're nearsighted."

"And vain as well. Not that I could wear my spectacles on stage. But to think, all this time you were listening to me."

She wanted to wrap her arms around him again, but he stood stiffly in the kitchen doorway with his arms crossed, drawn into himself, and something held her back. He looked as if he were awaiting judgment.

"You don't approve of what I did, and I don't blame you," Alberich said. "It seems puerile, but I wanted to hear you, and see you."

"I never knew, and to think that all that time you were there. It's like having a guardian angel, but in the flesh." She sidled up to him and laid her hand on his chest. "Think of it this way. They gave you the use of the box for a few months. You were thinking of moving back to Algeria. Then we met each other. Would you have been there last night, to put out the fire? I think a few month's worth of box income is worth it for an entire theater, and the lives of many inside it. I think whatever they lost in the box fees was returned to them a thousand-fold last night."

"Somehow I don't think my catechism teacher would have liked that moral reasoning."

"Mine wouldn't have, either. Neither the Lutheran nor the Catholic ones."

He put his arm around her and drew her into the living room, and they sat in front of the fire which always burned, so to drive away the underground chill. When they settled, she said, "You haven't gone to Algeria yet, I noticed."

He swallowed, hard. "I have to decide soon, in a month at the most."

"Can't you build hotels here in Paris? After all, you worked on this structure. And M. McLeod seemed to like what you built for him."

"I don't know. I live in Paris, or under it, to be precise, but I'm not 'of' Paris, if you know what I mean. I might as well be living in a hut out in the middle of a forest somewhere."

"Yes," she said. "I know what you mean. I hated Pappa for selling our farm, even though he had to. It seemed that every third or fourth crofter was selling out and moving to America. There was a birch forest behind our biggest field, the five-acre one. I used to walk there in the spring, and pretend the trees were tall slender ladies with green hair and black-and-white striped dresses, only the stripes went the wrong way. Mamma would call and call for me until she got cross. But don't you get lonely down here sometimes?"

"Did you get lonely in the birch forest?"

"But that was different. I didn't know what it was, to miss someone." Had she said too much? It had just slipped out before she could help herself. 

He stroked her tumbly mound of hair, and a pin came out. Putting it back, he said, "Kristina, we should go. I want to leave before the crews come in to clean up. And I also want to find some newspapers, to see what's being said about the accident."

They went out past the silent green lake, and after several confusing twists and turns, slipped out a little gated exit door she'd never seen before. A hint of spring flavored the cold, clear morning with a freshness stronger than the smells of mud and manure and cookstoves. They walked silently most of the way to Kristina's flat, and she kept her arm securely tucked under his. Something seemed askew, as if the world had tilted in a different way. Could people see that she hadn't spent the night in her own bed? Every glance seemed to hold a judgment, and she clutched his arm a little tighter.

Then she felt it again, that sense of something opening up, as if a crack were opening in a wall, or if a thick hedgerow of vines and thorns suddenly showed a small gap, one that you could walk through, one that would lead into a small charmed circle you could dwell inside. The thought of such a place – safe, protected, outside the world – gave her heart and she rallied inside. Forget these eyes, she thought. If she had left his bed, it was because she chose to, not because of eyes that pried or tongues that waggled. And if she went back to his bed, then the same would apply.

As they turned onto her street, she said, "I admit, I'll be looking forward to some leisure while they repair the theater."

"Oh, don't count on it," he said. "If not today, then tomorrow there will be rehearsals."

"Rehearsals? That's mad. How will we have rehearsals?"

"I know you will."

"You're certain of yourself."

"Let's just say I know."

"How?" The she laughed, and he looked a bit puzzled. "This morning, when you went out. I thought you had gone out to the lake."

"What?"

"For a necessary visit. But you were gone an awfully long time for that. Did you go to spy on the managers?" They had reached Kristina's flat, but she wasn't ready to go in yet.

"Old habits have more lives than cats. I didn't hear anything I hadn't already figured out on my own. They'll be closed for performances at least a week. Morgenstern's lapidarists will be working round the clock cutting crystal for a new chandelier that they can't pay for anyway. Oh, yes, there was something new as well. Now they're saying that the fellow who cut off the gas was wearing a red velvet mask."

"Oh, mercy. It's the way your face changes color. You ran up to the stage, so there was all that exertion, and then you were concerned. So of course your face became red."

"I've always hated it. It's like a window into my thoughts."

"I don't hate it," she said, raising her face, hinting. "Your expressions are still as pond water in summer, but I can tell what you think other ways."

He took the hint, then, and slowly and deeply he kissed her, drawing her tongue into soft rolls in and out of lips, around and in, around and out again. She could have stood on that street all day with him.

Two little girls ran by, giggling. "And now I must go," he said, and brushed her face with his lips before she could say anything.

She turned for one more glance as he strode off down the block. His heavy, loose workman's clothes were incapable of disguising the tall powerful grace beneath. When she put her foot on the stairs, there stood the unsmiling concierge at the top, arms planted on her broad hips, a grim expression on her face.

(_Continued ..._)


End file.
